


Old Tunes, New Melodies

by Miscellaneous_Ace, RazMahDaz



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Ciri being adorable, Family Dynamics, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Geralt being emotionally constipated for many many hours, Jaskier being a good boy for many hours, M/M, Repressed Emotions, Repressed Memories, Yennefer being Supportive, magical hijinks
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-18
Updated: 2020-04-28
Packaged: 2021-02-27 16:27:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 42,839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22300081
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Miscellaneous_Ace/pseuds/Miscellaneous_Ace, https://archiveofourown.org/users/RazMahDaz/pseuds/RazMahDaz
Summary: Five years had passed since Geralt lashed out at Jaskier and drove him off. The Witcher thought he had closed that chapter of his life, but when Ciri asks questions about his friends, those stories fill her with wonder. With a little persuading, she convinces Geralt that they must find him. An Old Tune, they find, familiar and jolly. But their travels lead down the path to new Melodies, and Jaskier may hold more in him than anyone had once thought; not even himself.(I've only watched the show so if any magic is portrayed weirdly or non canonically, forgive me!)
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 66
Kudos: 456





	1. Introduction

Five years. It had been five whole years since Geralt had lashed out against Jaskier. It had been five years since Geralt had laid eyes on Jaskier.

After the fight, The Witcher had thought he’d encounter the scrawny bard somewhere down the mountains path. Made camp off the side of the road, or wasting time by gawking at the vast expanse of hills and canyons. When Geralt hadn’t encountered him then, he swore the damn fool had gotten himself hurt while on the hike back to civilization. He was then on the lookout for a body in the brush, at the very least to give the body a semi proper burial.Though, the more Geralt searched, the less he found. 

The day after the fight, Jaskier’s signature scents had been strong and trackable, the more time Geralt spent searching the fainter and fainter his scent became. There were no tracks, there was no blood, and Geralt found that there was definitely no Jaskier anywhere on that mountain path.

Jaskier always dragged behind, lost in thought or absorbed with wonder as the pair traveled across the continent. It was always Geralt telling him to “Keep pace or be left behind” to which the bard just mocked and walked double time for a total of 10 minutes before falling back once more. Geralt had only seen Jaskier move faster than a strut when he was running from a beast, to which The Witcher would always hail as cowardice behavior.

He didn’t hold it past Jaskier for wanting to run this time.

If he was honest with himself, Geralt hadn’t thought about Jaskier past that fight in those few years. Of course, he felt the change without him there, the absence of music or a second set of feet crunching leaves as they traversed trails between towns. Having someone to bathe him and tend to unreachable wounds was certainly a luxury that he never thought he’d miss. But he could live without that. Geralt could live without Jaskier. He had thought about what he said, but after the first few months he just pushed the whole fight into the back of his mind, along with Jaskier. A distant memory in a short chapter of the White Wolf's long life. One that he’d never had to relive again.

Until Ciri.

Those five years were spent relatively silently. Geralt didn’t have anyone to talk to besides his employers, the whores he hired, or the townspeople that didn’t care for him. Roach became the only thing he talked to, which lead to many dead ended conversations. His world settled back into the mute journey he had traveled most his life. Geralt was used to it, he had to be with how his life was. He couldn’t count on his century old life being filled with music or stories or conversations. Geralt needed to be used to the silence again. However, when Ciri had finally found him, he found that hush had started to become distant again. It never fully left, but the long gaps once voided of sound were now eased by gentle hums of songs heard in balls or short stories of monsters and their demise met at Geralt’s hands (of course embellished to be a bit less gruesome or brutish).

Ciri didn’t always ask for tales or stories, just on longer rides or around a campfire when they were safe. One of these safe nights is when she unearthed a capsule in Geralt’s mind that he thought he had long since forgotten.

“Did you ever have a friend? A companion before me?” her voice was soft, gentle and persuading. The fire that crackled before her illuminated her full-of-curiosity green eyes that peered directly into The Witcher’s mind. Geralt looked at her soft face and then back to the fire, her question a shovel to unearth long lost feelings and songs.

“You’ve met Yennefer,” he stated, not wanting Ciri to erode the rock of his guilt. “I told you the tale of the golden dragon. She was there,” his gruff voice said softer than the breeze.

Ciri fixed her legs where her head had been resting on her knees, deciding to fold them below her. Her hands held out in front of the fire to warm themselves and her eyes landed on the fire and it’s drifting embers. “No one before her?” she picked at him. “Yennefer is old, but what about before? She said she hasn’t known you long, so, were you just alone?” 

Geralt wouldn’t talk. His eyes shifted to Ciri and then to the side to satchel that had been borrowed on multiple occasions by a voice long since curbed by force. He wouldn’t speak about a young face that had seen more good in him than the whole world saw most his life. He wouldn’t tell about a distant tune forever ingrained into a dark corner long ago. Geralt wouldn’t have shared...If it was anyone but Ciri.

“I was not,” he stated swiftly. Ciri’s eyes met his, eager for an answer. Geralt smiled a small bit with a huff. “I had a...friend,” he paused, habit wanting him to snuff that word like a wild flame. “A bard who used to follow me. He was loud, obnoxious...Odd. He was devoted to singing my tales, even to a fault.” Ciri’s mouth curled into a sweet smile as she sat up straighter and leaned in to hear of a new story. “His name was Jaskier,” Geralt began, telling the long tale that he himself had forgotten for so long; The tale of The White Wolf, and his Humble bard.

It’s not a particularly long story, especially when Geralt was never one for details. Though the way he described it seemed to be just enough to keep Ciri enthralled. She had eventually moved to sit closer to her watcher, wanting to hear every bit of the tale without missing a beat. Jaskier’s dramatic deposition was painted across her imagination, his taste for the finer things left her reminiscent of her own upbringing, and (with a bit of begging from Ciri) his songs plucked from Geralt’s low cords for her. Somewhere in the frey of tales and ballads, Ciri settled into a familiar place under Geralt’s heavy arm, the night grew long and far past the reasonable hour. The stories slowed, and nearly ended, just before the part that locked Jaskier away in Geralt’s mind for so many seasons. Even in her sleepy blur, Ciri noticed.

“What happened to him,” she asked after a deep yawn. She felt the arm around her tighten, Geralt unsure of how to even respond. He knew he couldn’t lie to her, proven when he had tried just moments before. She’d carve it out of him somehow. What pushed him to try, though, is that he wasn’t really sure how to say it out loud. He had told her about the Djinn and what he had done, but would it make Ciri think less of him if he revealed his second betrayal.

“We had a disagreement,” he decided to say. “He wanted to go to the coast, stay low for a while. I had other things to be apart of.” Geralt didn’t consider it a lie. It wasn’t really, but he knew he left out the most important part just to save his own skin from a scolding. The figure he was expecting to scold him went quiet, curled against his slowly lifting chest. His golden eyes glanced down to find the girl’s eyes closed and her body slowing to a cozy sleep. He thought for a solid second that he may have weaseled out of it, that his story was enough and that Ciri had blissfully trailed to sleep before she realized he was lying.

“Do you want to see him again?” her voice squeaked out. It was a simple question, yet Geralt wasn’t sure exactly how to answer. Before he didn’t know how to speak his mind, now his mind simply doesn’t know. He fought himself to find a reply, hell, he wanted an answer, he did. He just hadn’t asked himself that question. The Witcher had thought about the rest of the requests Ciri made. The stories he remembered ever so vaguely, the songs still strummed on a lute in his memory, and every so often his head focused on that harsh guilt he felt when he almost killed the bard for a moment of peace. He may have not thought about them for years, but he still held those stories close.

Wanting to see him again was one thought that had never once crossed his mind. He thought Jaskier was behind him like any other body he had met along the way.

His chest heaved deeply. “I would,” he said, rubbing Ciri’s arm tenderly. “It’d be...Nice to see what became of him.” The fire warmed Geralt’s body and he slumped a bit against the bag that was his backrest. Ciri adjusted with him, slightly fixing her legs to be more comfortable. Geralt’s other arm separates his head from the raw leather satchel that smelled vaguely of Roach. It was a long pause before the small girl spoke once again.

“I’d like to meet him someday. Can we find him?” she hums, her head nuzzling into his warmth. Ciri holds onto consciousness to wait for his reply, and for the first time he can recall, Geralt had a confident answer to give.

“We can try,” he hummed as his eyes closed. The pair fell into oblivion, a new but familiar journey ready to be trekked in the morning.


	2. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt and Ciri begin their hunt for the illusive bard, which has lead them to his last known where-abouts, the port city of Lindenvale on the rocky coast. Ciri is completely enamored by the coasts many beauties, and Geralt does some digging for some clues, sure that Destiny had had its way with him long ago.
> 
> Destiny has other plans awaiting.

Horse hooves clopped across long stretches of rocky roads amist fields of blowing dark green grass, their waves splashing against tan rocks and rotten logs. Cliff sides stood foreboding only a mere 20 feet away, dropping off to a rocky beach and watery grave. The gray clouds hung so thick in the sky that the beams of light that pierced through the few gaps acted as beacons. It was like staring at a painting. Ciri could swear she’d seen countless paintings of these wilds and every time she had, they’d lose their captivating charm every time she glanced at them. They all just merged into colors and shapes after a while.

This was a painting she couldn’t see enough of. Her body swayed back and forth as Roach carried her, one hand holding tight onto reigns as the other attempted to graze the long blade of grass near her boot. Geralt leading them to his guess as to where Jaskier had run off to. It had been weeks of travel to get here, but from the sweet smile of enchantment on Ciri’s face, it had been worth the journey. And as the pair made it over a certain crest, she hopped down from Roaches back and basically vibrated with excitement.

Dirt road met stone as that same long trail they traversed now curved down a steep hill, and towards a distant new town that rested on the edge of the sea. It wasn’t as big as some of the Kingdoms that the pair had visited in the past, but it was new and different and Ciri couldn’t wait to take in it all. From a distance she could make out a strong stone wall that encompassed the entirety of the port, but long expanses of dock were left out onto the ocean. A few ships were bobbing in the waves that crashed against a stone beach while a distant lighthouse was faintly illuminated to attract more. Countless flocks of gulls circled overhead, almost welcoming the pair to their new destination.

Ciri looked back at Geralt with her hands clenched together, shaking with anticipation. Geralt had seen that look before. A look of pure childlike wonder of wanting to explore and touch everything and anything she could without hurting herself. His eyes glanced at Roach and then to the sky.

“Don’t run off too far. Stay in my sight,” he instructed. Ciri’s arms swiftly wrapped around his waist before she bolted down the road and instantly veered to the left towards the rocky beach. Geralt watched, a small smile on his lips. He’d been here countless times, every ounce of interest long gone since his first visit. Seeing Ciri so excited did however, brings back a sliver of interest.

Roach pushed into The Witcher’s shoulder from behind, an attempt to get him to walk. His hand raised to pet the steeds muzzle and they began down the road at their own pace, following Ciri’s footsteps towards that same rocky beach she was now rummaging through for any hidden treasures. Her hands pushed through mounds of pebbles and wet dirt for anything she could find; shells, lost trinkets, or even a creature. Geralt had taught her that sometimes people dropped or lost things near larger towns as they came and went, so she was always looking for anything shiny on the ground when she had the time. She never found more than a loose coin or a small pendant, but they were something that brought her days up a small bit. It seemed the tradition continued as she combed through the beach, finding a few particularly dirt crusted shells that she found interesting.

Geralt watched over her from the road, leaning against Roach and waiting for Ciri to be done with her search. His head glanced from side to side, trying to find anyone coming or going to the city, that Geralt knew as Lindenvale, to see if anyone could help in this search. He hadn’t had any idea as to where Jaskier could have fled off to, but if the odds were in his favor and the bard was as predictable as he thinks, making their way up and down the coast might produce an answer. Any scent that Geralt had of the man had long since faded and it had been much too long to rely on tracking, so it meant he had to search the good old fashioned way; asking anyone if they remembered a perky young bard passing through five years ago. Of course, he didn’t expect anything to come of this search. The chances of the two seeing each other again were so minuscule that it’d have to be Destiny that forced the two together again.

Geralt was confident Destiny wasn’t in play for Jaskier and he. After all, why would it be? They weren’t important to each other.

It took Geralt a few minutes, maybe even an hour, to get the attention of someone who didn’t instantly want him dead or veered completely off the road to avoid him. A simple merchant atop a rickety old cart full of crate, his face old and worn and adorned with an overly well kept beard. His scent was of warmer weather, salt water, and a mixture of citrus and flowers. Though he seemed like the gentle type, he was fearless in the face of The Witcher. Geralt caught his attention by just waving his hand, and this merchant was eager to try and sell.

“Oi, looking for something Witcher? I just got in a shipment of tropical fruits and honey, if that’s your pleasure,” the older man said in the most charismatic way possible. A cheesy smile plastered across his rosey face. “Just came in last night, won’t find much fresher.”

“Do you live here?” Geralt asked in his usual blunt tone.

The merchant paused and looked suspiciously at the white haired man. “Yes, I suppose I do,” he reluctantly answered.

“How long?” He inquired.

“Born and raised,” The merchant replied slowly. He leaned away from Geralt, unsure of exactly what it is this dangerous man was plotting. His eyes squinted and his hand went to rest on the reigns that dangled from a white and brown freckled horse. Geralt reflexively folded his arms and leaned back, to make a stance that alluded to his stubbornness about the situation. 

“I’m looking for someone. A man. Scrawny, pale, brown hair, never knows when to shut up,” Geralt started to describe. “A bard. Plays the lute.” 

“Never heard of ‘em,” the merchant answered much too quickly. He changed, Geralt noticed. His scent altered. It became saltier, nervous. The Witcher could tell from a mile away what this man was trying to do. The reigns of the cart flicked, but Geralt wasn’t about to let him leave. He knew he was lying, and he knew exactly what would get this man to spill his secret.

As the cart began to move, Geralt’s hand came up and slammed on the back seat. The wood shook from his force and it thoroughly startled the rider. His other hand went to a pouch and emerged with a small coin pouch earnestly worn from time. It was no bigger than Geralt’s palm, but it held coin; just enough to get the other man’s attention. Golden eyes didn’t break contact with the other’s as he tossed up the pouch to the Merchant whom caught it skillfully before squirreling it deep into his pocket.

“He hangs around,” the merchant finally started. “Came in a few years ago then got taken on by a group of sailors.”

“Sailors?” Geralt said as a tinge of confusion.

“That’s what they call themselves.” The reigns dropped from his hands and he swung his legs over the side to lean in closer to Geralt, finally invested in what it is this Witcher is after.

“Pirates?” Geralt guessed.

“You said it,” he replied in a way that made it sound like if Geralt got in trouble, it was his fault for stating such a thing. “They seemed to like ‘em. Especially the captain. They have a taste for Theatrics and enjoyed his songs so they took the lad as their crew’s private entertainer.”

Geralt looked down to the side, his mind lost in a mixture of complete disbelief and dumbfounded luck. Jaskier was not only here, but had been associated with the company of pirates. He let out a low and drawn out sigh.

“Is he here now?” The white haired man said in an almost demanding tone.

“Hard to say. That motley crew spends months at sea. They left a while ago, but they haven’t come back yet. At least, I haven’t seen their ship. If you wanna find the boy that bad, wait around for a week or so. They should be back sometime soon, but I wouldn't hold my breath,” the rosy cheeked merchant informed. Geralt’s hand finally dropped from the wood and he took a step back from the cart. He gave a nod of appreciation. 

“Thanks,” he said and about as quickly that word left Geralt’s mouth is how quickly the cart trotted back onto it’s intended course. He stood there for a few moments, thinking. Ciri’s request to meet Jakier isn’t as far out as Geralt had once determined. The odds somehow raised and The Witcher was unsure on exactly how he would even approach Jaskier. He needed to find out relatively quickly though. 

Geralt called Ciri from her place in the rocks, her knees damp from water and her pockets filled with shells. He lifted the smaller girl back onto her perch on Roach and the pair strolled into the city of Lindenvale, now with the track of this elusive hunt.

The sound of delicately plucked notes filled the open salty air. They floated out and danced onto the roaring waters upon a gust that floods a canvas sail overhead. The sky was a clear cornflower blue with wisps of clouds just stippled across it’s expanse. At the bow of a large ship, sitting daringly on the railings, was a man lost in his own head. His brown hair grown out too long drifted in the wind, a colorful doublet or wine red with pantaloons to match, and a well worn lute grasped in a pair of well kept but calloused hands that fingered the strings in practiced perfection.

Jaskier sat against a scene of open oceans, his voice pitching through multiple octaves to match the chords he strummed. He kept a very worn leather bound journal close by, words scribbled frantically then crossed out in a similar fashion before they’re rewritten just below the previous; it laid on the floor, a piece of carved charcoal next to it for a quick solution to a quill and inkwell. His hand rubbed through his chin length hair as he grasped for words that just wouldn’t come.

“Lost in the ways of time, a love as beautiful as rhyme~,” he mumble sang to himself. He looked to the sky and clicked his tongue. “That’s not right. A love so fair and fine,” he sang again, still not satisfied. 

His blue eyes move to land on a colorfully cloaked figure standing a few feet away. They looked through a telescope out into the open ocean as the wind whipped their long dark curled locks of hair pulled into a ponytail. They walked up and down the deck in almost methodical practice, searching past the horizon for something specific. Their head seemed to jolt when Jaskier called out to them.

“Hey Thilen,” Jaskier shouted. “Got a good word that rhymes with Time? I’ve tried Rhyme and Chime but they both just don’t fit quite right.” Jaskier’s feet landed upon the deck of the vessel and he picked up the journal and charcoal that laid there, ready at a moments notice to take notes. He placed the lute on the floor in the journal’s place.

“Are slant rhymes aloud?” the colorful figured asked in return, now walking up the way towards the bard. Their features were dark and warm, many days spent in the sun’s company. A curled mop of black hair and a tall slim frame heavily decorated with jewelry and brooches made up the captain of the boat they stood up; a colorful personality that Jaskier came to know as Thilen.  
“As long as they’re good,” the bard chimed as he leaned against the railing.

Thilen joined Jaskier, straddling the railing just as the bard had done moments before. “Shine. If you’re writing about the treasure we just acquired, it’d better be described as nothing below magnificent and girthy,” Thilen advised, earning an intense eye roll from the other. Thilen chuckled before they practically laid down on the thin banister. “You’ve been working all morning, Jaskier, what even is the tune about?”

“I’ve been a bit distracted lately, I suppose. I’ve had a tune for the longest time but never had time to put words to it. Thought I’d give it a shot,” Jaskier hummed as he sat across his captain. He placed the charcoal to the paper but just started scribbling, swirls or jagged lines, almost hoping that mindless hand motions will draw out the words. “Hasn’t been going well, if you can’t tell.”

Thilen then grabbed the wood by their thighs, before they slowly worked themselves into a graceful and seemingly habit like stance. They pier down at the bard with auburn eyes before they started to pace the small banister with as much confidence as on flat land. They drew a silver scabbard and waved it through the air, drawing invisible sigils and images into the horizon as they began to talk.

“Well then, Jaskier, tell me. You’ve been singing of love, right?” the colorful individual asked.

“Attempting, I suppose. It doesn’t need to be-,” Jaskier started before he was cut off.

“Tell me Jaskier, Bard of a thousand monsters and their makers, what do you love?” Thilen began. Their body swung into a motion of theatrical sways and hand motions to accentuate their words. “Is it the grandest of balls, filled with illustrious women and men with their eyes and ears trained on you? Is it a hoard of gold and jewels that’ll make even a dragon weep with jealousy? Or perhaps the warm embrace of a noble who’s beauty rivals a succubus?”

“The warm embrace of a bath is what thrills me nowadays,” Jaskier snickered between laughs at the overenthusiastic motions of his friend. He was only met with a disappointed sneer.

“You’re no fun,” Thilen cooed as they re-sheathed their sword. They then upturned their nose and sniffed the air. “And right, you smell of the den of two elderly goblins.” Jaskier chucked the piece of charcoal at the other with an intense look of extreme offense on his face. Thilen just chuckled before dusting off the black dust from their jacket. They sat back down their hands supporting them as they lean back. “A haircut wouldn’t hurt either,” they suggested between laughs. 

“Just because you said those Abusive words, I shall now never cut my hair nor bathe. Just for you, you’ve brought this upon yourself,” Jaskier huffed, his arms crossed and his eyes not connecting with the other’s. 

Thilen almost howled with laughter as they frantically spoke a matter of apologies. “No, please Jaskier, I beg you,” they say as they drop their body onto the deck, begging. “I take it all back, I don’t even mind that you smell of decaying fish in a mid summer’s sun, just please cut that dreaded hair! I’ll pay for it myself!” Jaskier couldn’t help laugh a small bit at the other, but he dared not break his visage.

“Only if you pay for it,” he hummed out in seeming reluctance. His body loosened and a hand ran through his thick brown locks. His hair had been growing for the better part of a year. It never grew quick but he was impressed that it grew to its present length. It was almost as long as an old gruff man he once knew. “When we land in port tonight, I suppose we can get this mop taken care of.”

“Thank the Gods,” Thilen sighed. They stood back up and looked out over the railing, the telescope meeting their eye once more. They let out a low whistle, as if impressed. “We may actually make sunset at this pace,” they hummed before pushing the telescope into their jacket’s pocket.

“Good!” Jaskier said enthusiastically. “The sooner we’re there, the sooner we can go out on our next chart!” He had became fond of these excursions. His last few years of adventures on the high seas had graced him with unimaginable inspiration; and inspiration he hasn’t felt since he traveled with a long distant memory.

Thilen’s shoulder’s visibly dropped when Jaskier said that, their head looking over to a beaming bard. Their lips turned into a comforting smile as best they could before they walked over and put both hands on Jaskier’s shoulders.

“About that,” Thilen began. Instantly Jaskier’s face turned to concern. Thilen sat down beside the other and held his shoulder. “Our crew won’t be going out for a while. Almost a year, I’d say,” Thilen said slowly, delivering it the best way possible. Jaskier’s eyes widened and his brow furrowed deeply.

“Why!?” He exclaimed, genuine hurt in his voice. He didn’t want to be abandoned, not again.

Thilen kept a cool tone to try and ease the other into the same attitude. “When we were last docked, I got a message from an old friend; a fellow Captain. A Captain that I owe many favors to. His ship has been damaged in a storm and he is now wanting to cash in those favors for my ship.” The bards heart began to race, and he stood. It was all he could do. He ran his fingers through his hair again, but almost pulled at it, trying to wake himself from a dream that he must be trapped in. The other stood to try and comfort him, their voice moving to an optimistic tone. “Only for a few months! Jaskier, it’s only for a short while, surely you can last!”

Jaskier looked into the other’s gleaming eyes; they were comforting. They were eyes that he had learned to trust, and trust is just what he may have to do. “Can I not sail with your friend?” he said in an attempt to bargain, a final attempt at keeping this life.

“I’m afraid not my friend,” Thilen said as they placed a hand back on the bards shoulder. “He’s got a concubine he’s fond of, who does twice the work you’re willing to do.” Jaskier lets out a small huff of a laugh.

“You underestimate me,” He joked. It was all Jaskier could really do. He was sad, that much was true, and felt betrayed just a tiny bit. He wouldn’t fight or bargain or hate though. Jaskier was never the type to hate, even in the face of loneliness. It was only for a few months. Jaskier had been through far more pain before. He could last. He would have to try.

“Well then, Captain,” the bard said, swallowing his fears and facing the other with a warm smile. “I suppose we’ll need to drink ourselves into an early grave tonight, shan't we?” he offered. “I’ll pay.”

Thilen brought the man into a tight hug for a few brief moments before separating, their words wet with sadness, but they wouldn’t dare cry in front of Jaskier, for his sake. “A haircut for a good night. Sounds like a fair deal.”

Their ship soon made port, the day flying by while the crew said their prayers towards each other, wishing everyone the best before they went down their separate destinies. An evening sun was setting over Lindenvale, and as promised Thilen practically pushed the bard into the nearest barber to sheer the mop of brown Jaskier had agreed to part with. Thilen gladly paid, even for the bard’s inn room. The bard used the rest of the dusk to cleanse himself of months of sea travel and to prepare his voice for what was sure to be a rowdy night.

A night that starts the new destiny of many more people than Jaskier was even aware of.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is LONG like, very long. This will not be the norm for coming chapters, I just needed to get a lot introduced and out of the way so we can get to that good good shit. Next chapter will be much shorter for the sake of my brain. Just needed to say that.
> 
> Again, thanks to the wonderful @Miscellanous_Ace for beta reading. She is so cool, you guys. :)


	3. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The night is here, and Geralt goes in search of clues to find evidence of the bard's supposed new life here. Things don't quite go as planned, Jaskier relays his thoughts, and a thoughtful goodbye is had between friends. Though that goodbye gives way to a grand new quest.

The tavern was filled with life that night. A jaunty crew of pirate’s just swamped the establishment and bought out any booth or bottle they could put their coins toward. The scents from downstairs were intense and mixed in ways that would linger with Geralt for the next week. Salt, hard liquor, and a dozen or so people that have failed to bathe since yesteryear all congealed into an overwhelming concoction. Geralt would have to push through the disgust if he wanted to at least try and find any tracks, or even a job if he was lucky.

The duo had used the remnants of coin they had to rent a room for the evening. The room itself wasn’t bad, just baren. One bed that Cirilla would definitely be having all to herself, an almost empty bookshelf in the corner, a well ragged rug next to the large bed, a nightstand with a bowl containing only a few mushy apples, and a stack of a few blankets that were once under the bed but they were now all swaddled around a young blonde girl who comfortably sat and read on the bed. Geralt’s armor rested in a pile of all their things, but his swords remained on his back. It was a new town with many new people; and many new dangers.

Geralt sat on the bed next to Ciri and gave her a side hug, really just hugging a swaddle of furs and blankets that had Ciri’s face and arms sprouting out of it. She hugged back, a book in her hands as she did so. His hand came up to pat her head and he rested his head against hers.

“Stay here. Don’t open the door for anyone except for me,” Geralt hummed against the fabric that draped on her head.

“I know,” she said softly. She wasn’t weak, both Geralt and herself knew that. He knew that Ciri could, if needed, fend for herself if it truly came down to it. Geralt was just protective, knowing how terrible the world and the people who live in it can be.

“Don’t stay up too late,” Geralt said simply before hugging her tight one more time before he stood. Ciri nodded before she pulled the book back to her lap to continue reading. Geralt adjusted the swords on his back and took a deep breath of that offensive odor that wafted from downstairs. A slight sense of dread filled his stomach.

He turned towards the door of the room and placed his hand on the handle. He took one last short huff of air before he walked out into the hallway and down into the tavern’s bar.

The room was filled to the brim with people, Geralt found. When he and Ciri had made it to their room just a few hours ago, anyone could hear a fork drop from the rooms upstairs. Now it was impossible to hear anything besides the chants and shanties of an unruly crowd of sailors and the laughs of bystanders that watched the group. It was a thick mess of smells and noises and unnecessary people that made Geralt almost disoriented. Everyone’s separate heartbeats roared into a crescendo of disorganized and chaotic drums that thrummed deep in Geralt’s head. He had dealt with this before, many times, but it never seemed to get easier. His heavy feat carried him to a corner table where he sat and sunk into the shadows, his golden eyes focusing over the crowd.

He sat searching, drinking ale and just listening, for seemingly hours. The night eased deeper and deeper over the tavern and it eventually showed. Crowds dispersed, sailors leaving the building or fleeing upstairs with their respective whores basically hanging off of their coin purses. There was still a crowd though, one of particularly colorful figures that were clumped towards a corner. There was singing, a disorganized chorus of whoever the hell wished to join in, and a few instruments that Geralt could make out; a small drum, a flute, a fiddle…

And the faint sound of a lute being plucked in an eerily familiar way. Then Geralt heard it getting louder. Then the crowd began to part and Geralt’s eyes widened.

A freshly cut chestnut mop that framed a young pale face only barely aged with time. He was draped across another figure in a drunken comfort, his cheeks completely flushed with red. His movements were erratic and he stumbled over the many people that surrounded him to listen to him play. His words were slurred but his pitch was still perfect in a way that hit a chord deep in Geralt’s memory. He couldn’t believe it, he wasn’t sure if he wanted to believe it, but there he was.

“Jaskier…” Geralt said in a hushed tone, as if to make sure that he was awake. This was too convenient. Geralt knew he had to be either the unluckiest or luckiest person in the world because he knew it couldn’t have been Destiny. He swore it couldn’t be…

Geralt stood and left his booth and he ambled towards the group of supposed sailors, but he stopped to lean against a support beam just a few feet away. His arms folded as he just stood and watched for a few moments. Some of the group acknowledged him but didn’t move or invite him over; unphased by The Witcher while in a deep haze of alcohol. Jaskier didn’t seem to notice, his back facing Geralt throughout a majority of his little performance. He was lost in the throws of music, as Jaskier was apt to do when a night of drinking went too far. Geralt had seen this night a hundred times before but now, instead of feeling to drag Jaskier off to protect the bard from whomever he’s about to piss off, he felt almost proud of the bard. He seemed so genuine and fluid, unabashedly himself in this crowd of equally confident ne'er do wells. Geralt had only seen Jaskier like this in the late days of their friendship, and he only saw this display when the bard was thoroughly drunk. It was almost endearing. Jaskier was enthralled with himself, his song, and his friends, distracted in the fog that is his mind.

Jaskier was too distracted to realize that he was moving too close to Geralt. His back hit the brick wall that was The Witcher’s chest; Geralt freezing as they connect. Jaskier turned to apologize and their eyes locked, and his face went stupid.

"Oh...I see…," Jaskier muttered as he looked Geralt up and down. His eyes were slow and glazed over. Geralt went to say something, anything, but was swiftly cut off by the bard.

"One of you BASTARDS," He shouts as he turned around to face his new posy. "Spiked my wine! Oh you...You reaaaaaally got me," Jaskier chuckled. "For a solid Second I thought he was Here!"

"Jaskier," Geralt muttered to try and get the bards attention. Sure enough when his low voice sputtered out the name, Jaskier turned ever so quickly to face him. His face held a look of overconfidence.

"Oh no no no nononono No! Don't you dare try and speak Mr. Fakey-halucinationy what have you! I KNOW you're not real!" Jaskier waved a finger in The Witcher's face, and the lot behind him started to laugh. His eyes narrowed into the others golden ones and he bit his lip with intent.

"I don't know if you're a real person, but If you are, these words won't mean anything! But they're words I've thought about for a long time so let it be known! I Curse thee,He whom shall not be named!" Jaskier protested. "I Curse thine attitude that one can only compare to a dysfunctial Prick, I curse thine words that he only knows two of; Hmm and Fuck," Jaskier started in a boisterous rant. He earned a round of laughs from the crowd of pirates with each point he made. His hands moved frantically through the air, working himself up into a righteous anger. Geralt could only watch, stewing in a heat of anger and confusion.

“And Most Importantly…,” Jaskier started before his baby blue eyes connected with Geralt’s. “I curse ever calling you a friend, you wretched, disgusting, bastard! Tales be true it seems; Witcher’s can’t feel.”

It was at this name calling when Thilen came over to pull the bard back before he said something that’d he’d truly regret. They placed one hand on Jaskier’s arm and took the goblet he was spilling all over the floor with their other. Thilen looked towards Geralt with a much calmer expression.

“I’m sorry, Witcher, sir,” they started, tugging Jaskier back to his party. “This man just got laid off for a short while and he has a small...Thing against Witchers. It’s nothing personal, I Assure you.” Thilen gave a small smile that didn’t seem to stick to Geralt at all. “Listen you white-haired bastard, I’ll buy you a round and we can just put this behin-...”

“Wait… white hair? He’s real?” Jaskier said, looking Geralt dead in the eyes. 

“Wait, that’s him?” Thilen said in bewilderment. Jaskier’s hand reached out to touch the medallion that hung around Geralt’s neck, and sure enough it was real to his fingers. 

“Oh fuck,” the bard whispered.

Those were the last words Jaskier muttered before anger finally overtook Geralt’s senses. Call it offense or an attempt to knock Jaskier out of his drunken stupor, but his hand clenched into a tight fist and slammed into the bards crotch. Jaskier fell to the floor, holding his stomach and spitting up whatever contents left in his stomach as he shook from pain. Thilen watched their friend drop like a lead cannon ball and something instinctual bubbled up from inside them. In a swift move, they brought their own fist up to clock Geralt right in the jaw, causing him to sway to the side. The Witcher then heard the familiar sound of a sword being drawn from its sheath, and that was enough of a sign to know where this was going. Geralt’s hand went and he drew his own sword and he stood straight, facing the pirate that had just decked him. Thilen gave their blade a twirl before they cracked their neck.

“Fuck,” Geralt muttered before he came at Thilen swinging his grand sword towards the other’s thigh, not trying to kill, but not backing down from defending himself. 

Geralt’s blade was deflected in an expert parry by Thilen, who then plunged their foot directly into The Witcher’s stomach. His muscles tensed however, and he wouldn’t be pushed back by such a simple kick. He reached his hand up and grabbed the pirate’s leg and pulled upwards, causing Thilen to slam onto their back. Their grip never loosened on their sword however, and with a glint in their eye, Thilen swung down at Geralt’s leg, slashing deep into the man’s thighs. He grunted and the hand that held Thilen’s leg in place attempted to reach for the other’s blade, which Thilen took as an opening to get back up. They bent their arms back and used their hands to vault themselves back onto their feet in a quick jump. Though as they landed and collected their balance, Geralt’s sword swung up again and just barely grazed Thilen’s cheek, blood gushing from their face. They brought their freehand to wipe away the excess before frantically swinging attack after attack into The Witcher.

The crowd of pirates was drunkenly cheering and booing respectively, bets being placed for and against their Captain. It was a spectacle to behold, a fight between almost matched adversaries. Jaskier stumbled back to standing, wiping vile and drool from his chin. He wasn’t aware of how long he was on the floor, spilling the contents of his stomach, but it was enough for things to get entirely out of hand. His head was spinning, and his vision blurred, but he saw the disaster unfolding before him...because of him. Thilen’s eye was swollen, their nose bleeding pools onto their clothes. Geralt holding his side that had been cut deeply, his own face caked with red that might not even be his.

It went too far when Geralt pinned the other to a table, his sword flush against Thilen’s chest. It struck something deep in Jaskier, something primal and strong. Fear maybe. Anger more likely. Hate?...Never. Guilt was what flooded Jaskier, it’s what fueled him to storm over to the frey and yank The Witcher back from his friend, and it’s the same Guilt that made Geralt stop. Jaskier stood between him and someone who had just attempted to slay him, but he stopped and stared. The bard held a look of sternness in his eyes, a call to some memory ingrained into Geralt’s head. Jaskier shook his head only slightly and Geralt sheathed his sword.

The smaller man helped Thilen to their feet, draping their arm around his shoulder, and the paired hobbled off upstairs, silently. Jaskier looked back to Geralt, a final look of disappointment, before they disappeared upstairs. The crowd of sailors booed in a joined bit a disappointment, though some did throw coin to each other as their bets were settled. Geralt just remained, watching Jaskier leave. He came so close. But a part of him expected it.

Who was he that he should get to see Jaskier on fine terms again? The bard was right, about everything.

Geralt just clutched his side and went back to his and Ciri's room to lick his wounds. He opened the door slowly, the whole room cast in pitch darkness, a candle just barley lighting the nightstand far away from the lump of blankets that Ciri slept in. With the grace of a mouse, Geralt trekked the room over to his bag, to tend to his light wounds without waking the sleeping girl. He wouldn’t dare drag her into this mess he’s made tonight. She didn’t need to see it. She just needed to be told that they just barely missed Jaskier, him being lost to sea for the next long while. He began to stitch his wounds and concoct his lie, preparing his soul to not be jaded by the eyes of a young, hopeful girl.

He prepared his soul to live with tonight for the remainder of his gods forsaken life.

Thilen basically collapsed onto the bed that they called theirs for the night. Jaskier sat beside them in a chair and tended to the still gushing cut on their cheek, using a warm rag to ease the pain. Their eye was swollen and bruised and their nose was more than likely broken; it bent in an unnatural direction now. Jaskier was exhausted from the whole thing, his stomach still heavy and growling, muscles sore, his pelvis still tingling with discomfort.

"I'm sorry, Thilen," his raspy voice said as he held his head in his hands. Thilen's head turned to look at their distressed friend, and they gave the warmest smile.

"Don't be sorry, Jas," they comforted as they sat up. "I'd do it again at the drop of a hat. Just say the word and I'll cut the fucker open like a rusted treasure chest!" Thilen said with too much enthusiasm. Jaskier appreciated the others gusto, he truly did, but his mind still felt heavy.

"I'm thankful for you, I really am. But Thilen...I fucked up," Jaskier grunted, rubbing his eyes vigorously. "I, regrettably, remember everything I said," He started.

"Ah, so you remember how glorious you were?" Thilen butted in before Jaskier could even draw another breath.

"No, Thilen, I remember being Mad! I remember being Terrible!" Jaskier blurted out. He felt so rotten on the inside. His words were ringing over and over in his head, like the deep throngs of an old rusted bell. “I remember being...low…,” he hummed, a bit choked.

Thilen’s brow furrowed and they attempted to catch Jaskier’s eyes, but he buried them behind his hands. “Those thoughts, Jaskier. You said you’ve had them for years, and I know you have! Those words-”

“They Were Just Words, Thilen! I was Mad, I was Alone, And seeing him, drunk as I was, I said those words because they’re all I associated that fight with!” Jaskier basically shouted towards the other. His body shook a bit, from tired muscles or pure emotion, he wasn’t sure. “That’s all I had then. Just that fight and all the things I thought I wanted to say. Then I shut it out and locked it all in a box. Guess the key to unlocking it was these shitty circumstances…,” Jaskier trailed off, his lip quivering.

Thilen had tears in their eyes, rubbing their arms in a moment of sympathy. Jaskier was in front of them pouring their heart out, as he was used to doing, but this felt so genuine. He remembered the similar dark nights where it was just the two of them and those stories that Jaskier would go off on for hours at a time. So long ago, those stories held a hint of spite; sarcasm and words of seemingly hard truths, but hatred never filled a single one, not a single letter or note or rhyme. It hit Thilen as firm as one of the Witcher’s strikes and they felt the pain deep in Jaskier. They reached out to hold the bard, hugging him tightly. They felt a dampness come from Jaskier’s face that was buried in their shoulder and the light heaving of the musicians chest. 

“Because of me and my stupid tongue, you’re bleeding, Geralt is gone, and like Hell I’ll ever get to apologize…,” Jaskier whined into his friends shoulder. Thilen’s hand just patted the other’s back, rubbing circles into the weak figure to try and work him into a comfortable state. The bard was in shambles, and Thilen blamed themself. They were leaving for their new work tomorrow, so they couldn’t make it up to him in anyway that mattered. They pulled away and wiped the tears away from Jaskier’s face and just held him in place.

“Now, Jaskier, my bard, my friend, my right hand man,” they said in a deep coo. “Your life has lead you down a series of adventures and you have written so many ballads about them, so many lovely tunes. And one has been left unfinished for many years now.” Thilen’s eyes began to water a bit, seeing the small smile creep across the bard’s quivering features. “You have an adventure to go on, you rat bastard, and it seems to be calling to you. You have an opening, a line of chords, now you just need to finish the words. Find them, Jaskier. Find him,” Thilen spoke in such a firm and steady tone, that it struck through to Jaskier’s very heart.

He pulled the pirate into a firm hug, knowing it would be the last they shared, at least for a long while.

The morning’s beams streamed through the room’s small window and danced across the bards frail complection. His head was spinning and he even tightened his eyes at the late wake up call. His head swam in a thronging, subtle pain that sat deep behind his eyes. Jaskier forced himself to sit up and stretch, a demand that angered his muscles and bones. Everything from last night sat like a stone in his chest; the fighting, the words, Thilen’s final goodbye. He felt so sore, but the guilt had subsided. ‘Find the words’ he thought as he rummaged around his room for his things. He hastily dressed himself, slinging his bag and lute over his shoulder. His eyes met himself in the mirror, the words repeating in his head. “Find the words,” he muttered under his breath, his brow furrowing with determination. Jaskier gave himself a nod before entering the hallway and rushing downstairs, knowing that he’d have to travel like the wind if he wants to find The Witcher with how he travelled.

That wind was stolen from his chest when he hit the last step of the stairs.

“Please, I know it’s not enough, but there’s something out there and it’s maimed both of my farm hands! Witcher, I beg of you,” a middle aged woman pleaded with Geralt. She held a tiny sack of jingling coins, but The Witcher seemed unmoved.

“It’s just wolves, most likely. Get a hunter,” Geralt said. A small figure stood next to him, one that Jaskier didn’t recognize.

“Please, I’m telling you, there is some...Some...Some Beast out there!” The woman bargained. Jaskier saw the look on Geralt’s face, seemingly skeptical of her testament. The smaller person seemed to want to accept the quest, but Geralt seemed so slow to take. Jaskier’s feet carried himself, almost unwillingly, and he threw his hat into the ring, with nothing to lose.

“Hi, yeah, listen. As The White Wolf’s bard, we’re travelling a little different these days,” he said in the most charismatic way he could. He stood between the two, but could feel Geralt’s eyes peer into the back of his head. “If you don’t have enough coin, perhaps a trade? The coin you have and perhaps a hot meal, a place to stay for a night? Sounds fair to me, right, Geralt?” he said, his baby blue eyes connecting with the other’s. Jaskier held a smile and his eyebrows raised, nudging the taller man to agree.

Geralt looked down at Ciri who was tightly clinging to Geralt’s hand, her eyes trained on the bard. Only moments ago was she so upset to hear that they had just missed him, and here he was, in the flesh and waiting for an answer. He looked back to the woman and then back at the bard.

“Sounds agreeable,” he stated in a looser tone than before. The pair didn’t have enough money, but Geralt wasn’t about to go one a wild goose chase about something that didn’t exist. The woman didn’t have enough gold worth the trek out, nor enough evidence to back her claims. Thought, now with the promise of housing and food for Cirilla, it was well worth the hike.

The woman let out a long and relieved sigh, “Deal, Done. Thank you!” She said practically hugging the two men. Jaskier gave Geralt a look an awkward smile while The Witcher just let out his infamous ‘Hmm.’ The woman let go and gave Jaskier the pouch of coin, giving them instructions to her farm before she left the group in an empty tavern. The bard held out his palm with the leather pouch in it towards Geralt, who gently took it and put it in his own coin purse.

They just stood there, silently looking at each other, words failing to form. Jaskier smiled, and for a second he swore that Geralt smiled back; that one minuscule smirk that was ‘blink and you’ll miss it’ short. Jaskier rubbed the back of his own neck, his eyes breaking from Geralt’s and landing on the small girl in a blue cloak who was staring at him. He knelt down to be on her level and gave her the sweetest smile and Ciri smiled back. Jaskier put out his hand and she shook it, shaking it.

“Are You Jaskier?” she asked, her voice high and laced with excitement.

“Famously, my dear,” he introduced himself. Without any prompt, Ciri hugged the bard tightly. He was taken aback at it, not completely sure of why he was being hugged. Geralt chuckled in a barely audible tone. His hand patted her back before she pulled away.

“I’m Cirilla,” she said. “I’ve heard many stories about you,” she chimed.

“Oh, have you now?” Jaskier inquired, a tinge of sentiment in his voice.

“Well, sort of. Geralt isn’t the best at story telling. He said you sung your stories,” she stated, her eyes locking with the lute on his back. Jaskier’s head turned to where her’s was facing. “Would you mind singing one before you leave?” Ciri requested in the most charming manner. Jaskier just chuckled.

“Cirilla, I have time to sing all of them.” Jaskier pulled his lute from it’s case, standing straight and holding the instrument just so. His fingers plucked and tuned the strings of the instrument before he strummed a few chords of an old song. He murmured a few words in attempts to match the key. “Where’s a better place to begin than the start?” he asked the eager child. Geralt’s arms crossed in early annoyance, knowing exactly what came next.

“When a humble bard, is graced a ride along, with Geralt of Rivia, along came this song,” Jaskier began to sing softly.

The notes to a familiar tune, the start of a familiar adventure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember when I said chapter 2 wouldn't be as long as chapter 1? I was very wrong. So let's throw that promise out the window and just see where the fuck this goes bois. F to Thilen, may their reign live on somewhere else. Probably in D&D. Who knows, but they shall forever be a good pirate and a good friend. Next chapter will get...Spicy, so hold onto that.
> 
> @Miscellaneous_Ace is the best and has honestly been my main motivation for this whole thing. <3 thank you


	4. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The trio set out to hunt down these 'monsters', which Geralt still didn't believe were actual monsters. While Ciri goes up ahead on her own, Geralt and Jaskier talk about choices and what has happened since their separation. Things get a bit heated and the pair get distracted, and Ciri is now missing. They race to find her and find out these 'beasts' might be more than they bargained for.

A wind blusters through the green tops of trees and their branches, the leaves acting as maracas as they hit against each other. The skies ahead are blue and clear as spring water, and a thick scent of old rain and earth filled the forest air. Twigs snap and crack and crunch under the feet of a migrating party following a long lost trail. Weeds and roots curled over the remnants of a trail with rotted fence posts occasionally freckled on each side of the way. The party had been sent down this forgotten road by the same old woman that employed them. Ciri was walking a few feet ahead of the two men, using a large stick as a walking cane as she kicked rocks further down or off the path. Geralt sat high on Roach, armor removed and swords in their sheath comfortably on Roach’s side. Jaskier fell just to the left of the horse, keeping in time with The Witcher and his steed. The two men had been talking on and off for the past short while, about anything that came to mind about the time that’s passed.

“I’ve only heard of the things with Nilfgaard,” Jaskier admitted. “I worried, sure, but it never impacted us. I tried to keep an ear out for everything. The last thing I remember is Cintra.” Jaskier’s voice was gentle, his hands hanging from his pants hem in a casual manner.

“That was only a short while ago, so you haven’t missed much,” Geralt informed as he kept his eyes trained on Cirilla. He kept his voice low and had advised Jaskier to do the same when they reached the topic of war. The girl had an ear comparable to Geralt during a roaring thunderstorm and he didn’t want her hearing of it. She’d already seen so much, Geralt just wanted to shield her from it for a short while.

Jaskier eyed her as well. Even his mind couldn’t imagine what her life had been like. Geralt had only thrown him bits and pieces, probably the same pieces she threw him, but it was enough for Jaskier to admire her cheeriness. He was a positive person, but she was something as pure as flowers growing in the dead of winter. His heart ached for her, and he wouldn’t have anyone less than Geralt watching over her.

“What has happened as of recent? Any other cities?” the bard asked in a hushed tone.

“Not that I know. We’ve been away from it all for a while, so I just know of Sodden Hill,” Geralt answered in a similar voice. Jaskier nodded before taking in a deep breath and placing both his hands on the back of his neck. His hands pressed deep into the base of his skull before swinging back down to his hips. They both just walked in silence for a moment, watching Ciri happily go about her business nearly 30 feet ahead of the bleak air that encompassed the men.

“I wish that you two were safe,” Jaskier hummed. “You two deserve safe.”

Geralt’s head turned to look down at the other, a tinge of gratefulness in his eyes. His chest let out a short and simple pur in appreciation, a quirk that Jaskier had come to associate with ‘Thank You’. The bard nodded at the other and gave a soft smile before the pair averted their gazes back to the road. They fell back into a semi comfortable silence that was unfamiliar to the pair. Jaskier had always been speaking or singing but now he just kept his thoughts bouncing around in his head. The Witcher could tell. The way he held his hands close to his chest or popped his knuckles with the thumbs on their respective hands, or the way his eyes would just train onto four feet ahead of him for long strips of time. His heartbeat was quicker, and Geralt could infer as to why.

He pulled on the reigns on Roach and they halted. Geralt swung his leg over the horse and dropped onto the ground next to the bard that was still walking. Jaskier only stopped and turned to see Geralt when he heard his heavy boots hit the ground. Geralt loosely wrapped the reigns around his wrist and began to walk, passing Jaskier. Geralt was slower than normal. Jaskier almost clamored to his side, before he fell into step beside Geralt, his eyes still not quite meeting him. The silence draped across the pair of them for an almost uncomfortable amount of time.

“So,” Geralt finally spoke first. His eyebrow raised and he his eyes glanced at the man. “Pirates?”

Jaskier’s eyes lit up for a moment and his cheeks flushed a bit, an awkward chuckle escaping his chest. His hand rubbed down the heat that rose at the back of his neck as he took a deep breath of fresh air, a bit embarrassed to answer. 

“Yeah...Pirates,” He stated with a small laugh. It felt so strange saying it out loud. Being apart of a crew of Pirates was something Jaskier had never even thought about when he left his home at the age of 18. He didn’t expect to follow a dangerous Witcher either, but he knew he had wanted to find some sort of adventure once he walked out of the front door of his childhood home. Being associated with Pirates just seemed so nefarious for someone like him.

“May I ask why pirates?” Geralt inquired.

“Why…” Jaskier repeated. His eyes moved frantically from place to place and his tongue swiped across his top teeth, thinking about his answer. “I offered that we could go to the coast and get away, remember?” He asked the other, not really expecting an answer. He didn’t get more than that same hum, it just sounded upturned in agreement. “Well, even after we...Separated, I still liked the idea of leaving for a bit. Especially then. So I did exactly that. I went to the coast and tried to find out what pleased me. Adventure still pleased me, I discovered. And if i wanted to eat, I’d have to find it again.” Jaskier’s hand went to clutch at the fabric above covering his abdomen, his stomach remembering that long stretch of time without anyone by his side.

“I met Thilen in a tavern, I think the same one you met them in,” Jaskier commented with an awkward laugh. “We were drunk, we sang together, they threw up on my shoes, and then paid me back the next morning by letting me join them for a voyage as their entertainer. Their last one met an unfortunate end at the hands of an Old Sea Hag he had managed to piss off,” the bard elaborated with some exaggerated and lewd hand movements that gave Geralt a thorough idea on how the poor soul died. “I was supposed to leave when we reached land, a tiny island festering with a pirate town. But after I followed Thilen on their quest for a treasure protected by a feuding band of pirates, I found my adventure and settled.”

“Settled amongst criminals,” Geralt commented. He knew how dangerous his life was, but he knew what he did was at least mostly legal. Pirateering was an art that Geralt had known as something filled with delinquents or run away scum. Jaskier wasn’t them. 

“Perhaps I did,” Jaskier said in an offended huff. “At least those criminals could talk,” he scoffed at Geralt. The Witcher’s head fully faced Jaskier, his eyebrows in a deep furrow.

“And what does that mean?” Geralt demanded to know. He had stopped, letting Jaskier walk ahead a few steps. The bard turned to face Geralt, his hand on his hip, and his feet planted on the ground firmly.

“It means what it means, Geralt,” Jaskier said in an almost exhausted voice, like he’s had this conversation with Geralt hundreds of times before. Because he had. “Something was wrong, they would say it, if they had secrets, they’d let us know, if they had trouble sleeping, they would let us help,” Jaskier hinted heavily towards Geralt. Those golden eyes just stared him down as he spoke. The Witcher could smell it. Jaskier’s usual sandalwood and summer smell started to give way to a smoke like musk as the bard worked himself up. His voice filled his sensitive ears in a way that hit his core.

“It’s never that simple, Jaskier,” The Witcher practically growled. He as well was tired of this conversation, finding it exhausting to waste breath on it. They’d run this path dozens of times, and each time it ended with them dropping it entirely either by Geralt storming ahead of him or by Jaskier being cut off by something supernatural…

“Of course it isn’t,” Jaskier mumbled, his voice a storm in Geralt’s head. “Forgive me, Geralt of Rivia, but sometimes it’s nice to be hear and be heard.”

Those words cut the tension, silence flooding the space between the two men. There was no storm of heartbeats filling Geralt’s ears, no smokey scents that bombarded his nose, no crunching leaves of footfalls. Jaskier had sliced the arguments throat and muted the space around them to everything except the wind.

Then Geralt’s body went cold. His eyes darted and he pushed Jaskier to the side to look up the road a ways to see it untouched by a girl with a large stick and a habit of kicking rocks. His heart skipped an already barely there beat.

“Cirilla,” he muttered, his voice laced with subtle fear. Jaskier’s body had turned to see the same scene as Geralt had and his face went from annoyance to one of pure worry.

“Cirilla!” Jaskier started to call out into the woods that swallowed the pair. Geralt is already on Roach, swiftly drawing one of his swords and desperately tried to listen or smell anything close to Ciri. The scent of fresh spring flowers enveloped in snow and old pine with wet bark. His eyes closed and he focused like he never had before, his mind leaving his body to find the girl. Jaskier’s voice faded and he honed in.

Not far, not dead, but struggling, sweat and fear drenching her.

Geralt’s hand went down to Jaskier and his head jerked for the bard to take it. The bard grabbed it without any hesitation and in one practiced swoop, hiked himself up on Roach just behind Geralt. The moment he felt Jaskier’s mere fingertips on his waist, he jutted his heel into the horse’s side and Roach was off like an arrow; into the woods and following every tug Geralt lead her. Jaskier held firm to The Witchers sides but his head was swiveling around to find any trace of the girl. Trees wooshed past them in a haze Geralt completely blocked out of his vision, his sight tunneling to where he was tracking. The scent was stronger and thicker and panicked and it made Geralt sick; but it was heavy in his sinuses and he knew they were close. Then he caught the scent of water, rushing and strong and drenched with Ciri. It came into view, a wide but shallow river with jagged rocks and a strong and cold current. Geralt pulled on the reigns and Roach came to an abrupt stop.

Then they saw them. They looked to be horses, or partially so, but there was something so wrong with them. They were huge, towering over Roach at least three times. Their manes were long and stringy, slick with water and clinging to skin. Skin that was sloshing off of bone as if it had been submerged in water for decades on end. Two white pupils dimly glowed from sunken sockets that peered into The Witcher’s very soul. The front half resembled the shamblings of a horse, but the other was aquatic and fish like, the colors of a bass all around. One of these creatures was just observing, it’s head looking over it’s shoulder at the men, and the other had it’s front hooves pushing on a soaked blue cloak, whatever in it writhing to get free.

The black veins around Geralt’s eyes sockets coarsed a dark color and his eyes went pitch. He dropped from Roach and the only thing driving him was a protective instinct. Jaskier dropped behind him and pulled Roach back just a few feet. He knew what Geralt was about to do, and as he was always told, he planned to stay out of the way of this enraged White Wolf. Jaskier was confident in Geralt, always was, but he couldn’t nip that blossom of fear that grew in his stomach. He just got him back…

The Witcher moved with aggressive gusto, red plaguing his vision. The creature closest to him was simple enough to move, his palm outstretched and a burst of magik and it was pushed from his war path. He’d deal with that one once Ciri was safe. His eyes never trained off the monster holding the girl down, nor did his movement slow once he was nearly knee deep in freezing water. He was trained on this beast, his knuckles going white from holding the hilt of his blade so tightly. His black eyes locked with the things white pupils before he lunged at the damned thing, his sword being thrust forward to sink into the horse-half’s shoulder blade. It let out a deep and visceral cry, a gurgle of what was once a whinny. It reared back but it still held the girl down. His hand still on the hilt, he pulled to the right, attempting to cut the monstrosity’s rib cage open. It didn’t give way, the blade stuck deep in a bone between them. This thing, with the speed of a falcon, swung it’s chest to the side, and Geralt came with it. 

He was pulled from the water and pushed onto dry ground, facing this thing down with a look that dripped with murderous intent. Though, from this movement, it was off Ciri, who was above the water but choking so hard it made Geralt’s throat close. He forcefully pulled the blade free from it’s position, the meteorite steel coated in a viscous black liquid. Geralt cursed under his breath, his silver sword still with Roach and Jaskier. He’d just have to hack these beasts to death, and that was something Geralt didn’t mind.

The monster in front of him lunged, attempting to stomp Geralt with it’s hooves, but The Witcher swiftly rolled out of the way as all it’s weight collided with the ground with intent, the mud leaving deep grooves of it’s impact. The tail was something Geralt didn’t see coming. It slammed into his side, sending him across the forest floor, his sword being lost amongst bramble bushes. He did get to his feet, but he had no time to find his weapon. Ciri’s rasped scream rang out and he lost all focus on the fight. The previous beast that had been pushed to the side was now right above Ciri, determined to drown the girl itself. It began to rear it’s heavy weight back, Geralt knowing that it would instantly kill the child. He moved with a speed that he would definitely feel in his legs tomorrow; that was if they lived to see tomorrow. He swept Cirilla into his arms and they both just narrowly missed the disgusting thing’s brute force. The Witcher tucked the wheezing girl behind him and started to back up slowly, his brow furrowing tightly. These two monsters now circled them, a wall of horse corpse and determination to drown these measly little humans. Geralt could hear Ciri, voice desperately trying to make a spell come forth, her heartbeat racing and lungs so tense and filled. Geralt could hear Roach clomping about and crying towards the pair, tugging at her reigns to get help. He could hear Jaskier’s, frantic and fearful and trying to think.

Jaskier was wracking his brain for an idea, anything. The worst idea he’d ever had would be his greatest achievement in this moment. He knew he couldn’t fight these beasts, they had Geralt of-fucking-Rivia cornered. His head was spinning, reeling. He couldn’t let this happen, not to them. Not to that damned Witcher and the girl he cared so deeply towards he was willing to die for her. Jaskier couldn’t let those two fall victim to these creatures, they were too important to the world. Himself though, a measly bard, the world could live without. So he began to do the only thing that a bard could do.

Sing.

Jaskier’s voiced crept out of his throat, and his notes were all wrong. He didn’t need perfect, he just needed to distract. His hands let go of Roach’s reigns and he just paced the banks of the river, his voice spilling into the air.  
“Sweet Siren’s tail, oh how you entrapped me! Oh steel Siren’s gaze, how you hath moved me! Towards your open maw, like a moth to the moon, you sank your claw, and I craved your boon!” He practically started belting, the notes falling into some order. The words from a song of his times at sea, the first that popped into his mind. Jaskier’s voice was strong and forceful. Geralt heard him, and he saw the creatures snap their necks in unnatural positions to look where the music came from. 

“Dammit, Jaskier! RUN!” Geralt shouted out onto deaf ears. The monsters already left their formation to encroach on the bard, who’s eyes were shut so tight, tears were building. Jaskier didn’t want to see his death. He just took a few steps back and kept singing. All his notes now aligned into proper tune. He smelt the monsters as they started to get even closer. His voice was straining and almost broke, but he forced his vocal chords to sing like he never had before. Geralt held Ciri close and watched on in horror, unconfident in what to do next. Geralt always had a plan, he always made one up if need be. Now his head just focused on the bard and his voice. A small part feared it’d be the last time he’d hear it. 

Geralt felt the wind pick up in the leaves and branches overhead, he felt the once light breeze grow into a wave that caused trees to almost bend. He saw the dead leaves that littered the ground pick up with the force of a small whirlwind, that encompassed Jaskier’s now shaking form. The wind was different, though. It wavered the image of Jaskier, it bent it like water would. He heard the bard’s voice cry so hard that it made his own throat dry, and it hit Ciri and Geralt like a shock wave. Geralt’s rib cage shook, the force of a hardy punch straight to his chest. Those beasts felt it too, being pushed back a solid five feet from their purchase just in front of Jaskier. Then the bard hit another chord perfectly and it happened again, harder. The song now pounded into Geralt’s head, it voiding out any other noise in the forest.

With every tense enunciated note Jaskier sang, another one of these gusts would hit, and it’d get harder, and harder. The creatures were now cowering before the simple bard whose face was beat red and whose form wasn’t affected by any of these blows. He sat in the center of a storm. A storm that finally peaked and hit just right, the two monsters being tossed into trees dozens of feet away, their spines audibly cracking under the force. Geralt wasn’t close enough to feel the worst of it, but his feet had been pushed back at least a few inches. He peered at Jaskier who still sang with the intent of going mute and he could just barely see it, the faint ripples coming from his mouth; from Jaskier.

Geralt took Ciri’s hand and he pushed against the waves of force with all the might he could muster, his other arm having to protect his eyes from the dust and debris that picked up in the wind. Once they were close enough to see Jaskier was crying, Geralt dropped Ciri’s hand before forcing his way closer to the bard. His hair whipped in every direction and his feet more than once slipped. He was close enough to almost touch Jaskier when he dove behind the other man, into the center where the winds had been weakest. As he got behind the bard, Geralt covered Jaskier’s mouth a nose, having to fight the energy that poured from his lips.

The bard panicked, his body jerking and trying to get away, but Geralt’s firm arms wouldn’t let him. His one free one wrapped around the bard’s waist and pulled him deep into his torso, locked. Jaskier’s eye’s widened and his lungs heaved for air. As soon as Jaskier was hushed, the rampant winds stopped, the air as still as when they arrived. His body was convulsing against Geralt’s, shaking like the very leaves. Jaskier felt Geralt against him and it cemented him into the present. He was alive, and so was Geralt and Ciri. He hummed a few things behind Geralt’s palm as his body began to relax. Geralt’s own body relaxed and his hand dropped from the bard. Ciri rushed over once everything had stilled and hugged Geralt with the strength of a bear. He clung to her as well, holding her head close to his chest as he just kept eyes on the bard who was coughing and sniffling in front of him. His back was turned and Ciri was tucked into The Witcher. One of Geralt’s hands reached out, something wanting to pull Jaskier into the hug.

His hand denied Geralt and just went back to holding a shaking Cirilla, his hand rubbing circles into her back to calm her. The bard looked back at Geralt. He was out of breath and swaying, completely out of himself. The whites of his skin were that of daisies. Jaskier’s vision blurred and he held his head as an ache wriggled into his brain, leaning forward to prop himself up with one arm that was too weak to hold him. Geralt caught him and kept him stable before he fell into the pair and their eyes connected.

“Thank you,” Geralt hummed. The Witcher knew this wasn’t nothing. Jaskier was human, and had never once showed any signs of being connected to magik in the almost decade they traveled together.

They needed answers. And Geralt had an idea on where to start looking for them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope ya'll enjoy this! That's really it. The chapter kinda speaks for itself.
> 
> I will say, thanks to everyone who is leaving hits and comments and kudos. Like y'all literally made me cry the other night, you are so sweet and it motivates me to no end. Just thank you!
> 
> and thanks again to my biggest motivation, @Miscellanious_Ace. You're as lovely as ever :)


	5. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Listen man, I ain't gonna sugar coat this shit. It's 90% fluff. That's all that needs to be said here. No other context. Just some fluff and some feels. Have at it.

The light of a hearth cast long shadows across the wooden cabin. A large table sat in the middle of a decently sized living area, benches on each side of it. It was covered in great smelling foods; loaves of fresh bread, slow cooked lamb stew, a bowl of almost fresh fruit, and roasted potatoes were all spread out in the best feast that could be afforded. The atmosphere was home-ly, cozy as Jaskier would describe. Everything felt homemade, from the table itself to the woven tapestry hanging above the hearth to the very floor they all rested their feet upon. There was a makeshift bed just off to the side against a wall, blankets and furs that were just thrown together into a comfortable spread. 

Geralt’s eyes kept being drawn to the bedding, Cirilla curled up in quilts and sheets in an attempt to keep the girl warm. She clung to a still shaking and long mute Jaskier, who sat with his back slumped against the wall and his hand just barley messing with the child’s hair. On the ride back to their employer, Geralt passed Ciri to Jaskier to hold and care for on the ride back, and even after they entered the house and Geralt offering to take Ciri back, she just lazily clung to the bard like the comfiest pillow she’d ever held. The men silently agreed that it’d just be best for Jaskier to act as a safety blanket for the evening. The bard didn’t do anything to object, his own body just worn from the days proceedings.

“So what were they?” The older woman from before asked. She was dishing food out between Geralt and a man that could only be assumed as her husband. “Can wolves do that?” she inquired, gently gesturing towards Ciri and Jaskier.

“No,” Geralt said, his eyes prying away from his family and...friend. He slowly ate, his appetite almost non-existent to begin with. “They were Kelpie. Water spirits that like to lure their prey in and drown them before eating. They prefer women, so that’s why your farm hands were hurt. Both of them are lucky to be alive,” he informed as he took a large chunk of lamb into his mouth.

The woman nodded and stood from her seat on the bench. “Well, even with your hesitance, we thank you. Please, you need absolutely anything, don’t be afraid to ask or help yourself. We are beyond grateful,” she praised as she started to clear mostly empty plates and utensils. Her husband nodded in agreement. “Yes, thank you, Witcher! If you need, feel free to my travel supplies. Rations, food, anything,” the man said.

The bowl that Geralt has no completely neglected was swept out from under him as the table was cleared, save for a few loaves of bread and the fruit. The couple cleared out everything, and then left the trio to their makeshift bedroom for the evening. Geralt sat at the table, his back against it so that he could watch the flames. Both his swords laid under his seat and he pulled out the one still coated in black icor and a well used rag and some oil. The black gunk had coagulated and left sticks and leaves stuck to the blade after it went flying into the brush. He began to clean it, every once in a while looking back to see his two companions.

Ciri was still awake, her eyes just focusing on the hearth. Her mind was a swarm of fear and anxiety, and her hands just clutched at the heavy blanket that enveloped her. Her head rested on Jaskier’s stomach, his hand still very delicately playing with her hair. Geralt would try to make eye contact with her, but he knew she wasn’t there. She was off in another place, probably holding her grandmother. He had dealt with these nights before and predicted tonight wouldn’t be easy either. She was exhausted, but sleep would betray her, so she dared not try and meet it tonight. Jaskier though, he was already slipping into its grasp, the only reason he hadn’t completely fallen to it had been for Ciri’s sake. Geralt had never seen the bard so tired. Deep set circles were under his eyes, his face paler than usual, and his hand trembling as it moved through the still damp lockes. He had never seen Jaskier so silent either, even after his throat had been wounded by the Djinn.

Geralt wanted to ask so many questions, but he knew that now wasn’t the best time. He desperately wanted to know what Jaskier had done, but he doesn’t even think Jaskier knows what Jaskier had done. They would definitely talk tomorrow; tonight was for rest. Geralt worked the blade clean before he tucked everything back into it’s place in his bag. His head tilted back and his eyes close, needing a few moments to think about what comes next. If the bard had no idea what had happened, it may not be a bad idea to go and find Yennefer. She might be the only person that would have anything close to answers about what happened. She helped Ciri get a handle on her magic, so maybe this would be similar. Geralt’s mind was just left to sit and think, pondering about anything and everything that could be linked back to that magik. He just couldn’t land on any explanation, his focus being disturbed by humming.

Humming? It was broken and shakey and patchy but it was a low hum of just a few notes. His head tilted back up and he looked over to see its cause. Jaskier, a hand against his throat, desperately trying to string a few simple notes together. He began to cough and Geralt instantly got up. He grabbed a leftover cup filled with water and knelt before the younger man, a hand on his shaking shoulder.

“Stop, drink, and rest,” Geralt demanded in his usual low voice. Jaskier took the cup and sipped from it, before setting it on the floor next to him. He coughed a bit more before sinking back against the wall, his bloodshot eyes meeting Geralt’s before they looked down at Ciri. She was moving and looking at the two of them.

“She...wa...wanted...a lullaby,” Jaskier choked out, his throat as course as a tree split by lightning. He looked down at Ciri who simply nodded. Geralt ran a hand through her hair before he looked at Jaskier, but spoke to both of them.

“You can’t speak, Jaskier. You shouldn’t be singing,” Geralt simply said.

“Fine then...you...do it,” he croaked out. Geralt thought he was joking, but from the stern and cold look in Jaskier’s eyes, he was as serious as the plague. Geralt looked to the side, let out a huff and then looked at Cirilla. Her lips turned upwards in the tiniest way, her eyes pleading. The Witcher knew he was no match for that rare look. It cut to his very heart and he groaned in response.

“Fine,” Geralt growled. “Only if it’ll get the both of you to sleep.”

Geralt stood and walked around to the other side of the pair, sitting down and leaning his back against the wall. Cirilla moved and Jaskier collapsed onto the floor, his head meeting a pillow. The small girl moved between the two, not quite letting go of Jaskier, but she laid on her back to look up at Geralt. He started to brush down her hair with his large, calloused hand and she just happily nudged into it. Jaskier just looked up at Geralt, and waited to see the unbelievable. Geralt never sang once, ever, in any of his travels with the bard, Jaskier was confident that Witchers are cursed to be unable to sing. Though, Geralt didn’t begin to sing in the traditional sense, he did begin to voice a few ‘la-s’ and the such.

It was low, and the tune was incredibly off, but Jaskier could feel Geralt’s voice rumble into his very heart. The song itself was an old lullaby that Geralt could just faintly remember from his days with his mother. Gods be damned if he could remember the actual words, but the tune came so naturally. Cirilla had settled, her head turning back into Jaskier’s chest and she nuzzled deep into the bard, his arms wrapping around her to hold her close. Geralt’s lips upturned into what may have resembled a smile, Jaskier couldn’t quite tell. With Cirilla beginning to doze off close to his chest and his own head beginning to drown in a sea of sleep, everything just started to blur. His bass-ey voice worming its way into his memory, that tender look on his usually gruff face, and those amber eyes that were warmer in the hearth’s glow.

Geralt saw the two slip into unconsciousness and his voice slowly faded when he knew they couldn’t hear him. His hand slowed to a stop, just resting atop Ciri’s head, his fingers just every once in a while scritching her scalp like one does a cat. His body fell down the wall until he was level with the both of them, at eye level with Jaskier’s still young looking face. Of course, there were small wrinkles in the corners of his smile, crows feet beginning beside his eyes, and the sea's shining sun seemed to have left the faintest of freckles across his cheeks. Jaskier was deep into his 30s, but Geralt could see such a youthful glow in him, even now as worn as he was.

His hand moved from Ciris head, as delicately as to not set off a trap, and just barely tucked chestnut hair out of the bard's eyes and he just stared. Geralt’s face was unmoving, no emotions directly coming out, his eyes just looked at the sleeping man. In his stare though, he noticed something. He pushed the hairs back just a little further and saw the smallest and almost completely gone scar just under his hairline. His thumb just gently grazed the imperfect skin before he withdrew his hand entirely but his arm didn’t retract. He propped himself up on his tree trunk of an arm, eyeing the blanket shucked down to the sleeping pairs feet. Ciri was already swaddled in every spare fur in the cabin, but Jaskier was completely exposed to the cold air. He wasn’t shivering, but he will once the hearth goes out. Geralt just pulled the thick quilt over the bard, neglecting himself.  
Geralt laid back, his head falling to the side and bowing down to just be above Cirilla’s. He closed his eyes, slowing his breathing and relaxing into the warmth of the bed, a deep set meditation taking hold of him.

The night had passed without any problems. Cirilla had slept peacefully through the night and that morning, Geralt was roused from his mediation to the sound of a peppy Jaskier thanking their employer by singing a jaunty tune while he helped the woman cooked breakfast. After a very hearty meal and helping themselves to whatever they thought they would need, Geralt started to load up Roach for a longer journey. Ciri helped out the family with their morning chores and Jaskier stood off to the side, tuning his lute.

“So, where to next, Geralt?” Jaskier asked in an optimistic tone. Of course, his voice wasn’t perfect, a cough escaped his throat every few sentences, but he was just happy that his voice wasn’t permanently damaged.

“We’re going to find out what ‘that’ was,” Geralt said as he slung a saddle bag over the back of Roach. “We’re going to try and find Yennefer.”

Jaskier looked up for a moment. “Yennefer. Yennefer…,” he started, trying to place a face to a name. His knuckle came up to his lips and he went cross eyed. Geralt raised an eyebrow, his hand raised to say something, but he was cut off by Jaskier’s interjection in his most offended voice. “Yennefer! That She Witch!?” The bard stood and walked closer to the other. “That crazed mage who almost killed me over a wish!”

“The woman who also saved your life,” Geralt commented. His arms crossed and he leaned against the large horse, his eyes following Jaskier’s finger waving about in his face.

“Mayhaps, but was she also not the one who...whom...Gah! I can’t even voice what she did, but I know it was no good!” Jaskier said in an angered huff just before he began a coughing fit. The Witcher patted his back as Jaskier lurched forward, trying not to cough all over Geralt. The back of his hand wiped away the saliva that dripped down his chin and he stood back up, not looking at The Witcher as if he had just made a point.

“Jaskier, she is a powerful mage and you have...something,” Geralt stated, his head tilting to try and meet the other’s sapphire eyes. The bard’s cheeks were flushed but their eyes didn’t connect. “If anyone would know what happened, it’d be her.”

“I want to know what happened as much as anyone else, but...does it have to be her? She scares me,” Jaskier admitted. One of his hands came up and rubbed down his throat as if he were trying to protect it from something. Geralt took one step to the side and he finally got caught in the sea that is Jaskier’s eyes, still faintly bloodshot.

“I trust Ciri with her when I go somewhere she cannot, she’s been a wonderful magik instructor for her, and Cirilla adores her,” Geralt attests to the mage’s strengths. He still saw that doubt behind the bard’s eyes. He didn’t expect Jaskier to trust him just yet, but Geralt knew that this was something that needed to be seen. For all he knew, the other was cursed by something benign or blessed by something divine. He had traveled with the bard for so long and he wasn’t one for keeping secrets, so a part of him just wanted to know. The bard’s shoulders were tight, anxiety still holding on.

“I won’t let her hurt you,” Geralt hums.

Jaskier looked deep into Geralt, searching for any trace of a lie or betrayal. No matter how far the bard pushed back those amber eyes or those gruff lips or the steadier than stone rise and fall of Geralt’s chest, he couldn’t find anything that would insinuate anything less than the truth. His head bowed, his eyes at his feet, and his shoulders dropped with a short heave of his lungs.

“Promise?” He asks meekly.

“Promise,” Geralt assures. Jaskier’s face peered back up to his own, a sense of trust and willingness in his young face. His eyes beamed and a tiny smile crept across his thin lips. It was such a familiar face that Geralt doubted he’d ever see again.

“Well. If we want to catch that...mage,” Jaskier said, refraining from swearing. “We should move quickly. I’ll go get Ciri.” Jaskier walked over to his lute and slung it over his shoulder before he walked off to find the small girl. Geralt watched him walk off towards a barn, his own body relaxing as the other left. He caught himself smiling, just a tiny smirk plastered across his face. Geralt wasn’t sure if it was there throughout the whole conversation, so it just sunk back to that scowl he wore so proudly. That wasn’t enough though, Roach bumping him with her hip to knock him out of his daze.

“Hmm,” Geralt simply said as a response, his hand falling on the mare’s neck. “Don’t look at me like that,” he whispered to the horse, petting her mane down. “It’s only because I’m making up for what I said. And saving him from whatever curse ails him. Nothing more.” Geralt wasn’t even sure if said those words out loud, his voice so low, it could have just been his thoughts. He knew how the bard felt about him, those harsh words back in the tavern, that wound still fresh on Geralt’s soul. Geralt owed this to Jaskier, a dept that needed to be paid back for all the shit Geralt has dragged him through. The least he could do right now was get an answer to how this human conjured magik after a decade of nothing; they traveled together so long, Geralt would have noticed Jaskier casting spells. Jaskier seemed so terrified by the act as well.

Geralt was just going to give the bard some guidance and protection. That’s all this arrangement ever was. That’s all it’ll ever be.  
With Ciri finally rounded up and a farewell from their previous contractors, the party wandered back into the woods, ready to search for the elusive sorceress. 

It took a few weeks, many days of them just asking and living off of whatever gold Jaskier would bring in with his songs and then spending days at a time in the forest to save coin. In those weeks, Jaskier had never had another pulse of magik. Geralt hoped, silently begged some divine force above, that it was once and done, just a bit of luck or fate. Magik was such a tricky force to be reckoned with and the way it tore the bard to shreds wasn’t too pleasing either. Teaching Cirilla how to control her own magik was hard enough.He would never say it, but Geralt just wanted Jaskier to have a life as close to normal as possible. A life as happy as a human could lead. It’s what the bard deserved.

Their search ended one afternoon, Jaskier catching gossip of a sorceress visiting the mayor and then never being seen leaving. Geralt connected the dots and they all headed over to a large chateau just out of town in a wide open clearing. The yard is a mess of bushes and flowers, left to grow to their own accord. The home was at least three stories tall, four if you counted the cellar, its doors long grown over by vines. Everything in the radius of the house seemed to be flourishing, everything greener than what they saw on the ride over.

“Yennefer must be experimenting,” said The Witcher as he looked around the courtyard. Jaskier and Ciri wondered about for a moment, perusing the garden with Geralt’s eyes on them. Jaskier plucked one of the larger yellow roses that grew just under a window and dressed it into Ciri’s hair. All three noticed when a young bulb sprung onto the nipped end of the stem, already beginning to burst with petals.

“Suppose so,” Jaskier hummed, taking a few steps back from the bush.

They walked around the premises, finding a door on the other side of the house. Ciri didn’t knock before she pushed the heavy oak doors open and walked into the main hall, Geralt trailing behind her by a few feet. He was only five feet into the foyer when he didn’t hear Jaskier’s foot steps behind him. His head turned back and he saw the bard just looking around the inside, his arms folded, and a weary look on his face. Jaskier’s eyes scanned past Geralt before landing on his, the bard’s brows furrowing just a small bit. The Witcher gave the other a nod, short and simple and enough to ease Jaskier’s nerves a tiny bit. Jaskier walked over, standing behind Geralt, almost hiding behind him as they walked into the main living area of the house, Ciri nowhere to be found. 

“Ah Ha! My favorite little sorceress! How is my brightest student doing?” said a familiar voice from up the stairs and down the hallway, in a warm and motherly tone. Clacks of heels against wood could be heard coming closer, the giggling of a young girl following them. Geralt could hear Jaskier’s heart race, could feel him move directly behind him to block himself from view.

From the view of a woman draped in a black, comfortable looking, floor length dress, a shawl thrown over her shoulders, and waves of black curls spilling out of a bun. A figure that demanded respect and attention when she walks into the room, even if wearing something closer to sleepwear than actual clothes. Cirilla followed her hand in hand, her eyes bright with stories to tell. Yennefer’s vibrant violet clashed with Geralt’s deep amber, a look of slight amusement as she glanced him up and down.

“And what is Cirilla without her dog,” she teased as she walked down the stairs towards the man. Then her eyes focused, behind Geralt, a face her memory had long lost to time. She arched a brow and trained her attention to the bard, Jaskier making poor attempts to sink behind Geralt even further.

“And what is a Witcher without his bard,” She cooed towards the younger man.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> God this CHAPTER. It might be my favorite. And we updating early cuz these next chapters are gonna be absorbing my life. They are whole ass snacks. Enjoy you nerds, let us rejoice this valentines month with just some good feels. Good honking feels! :)
> 
> Hey gamers, before we get into this weeks episode, Let me tell ya about @Miscellaneous_Ace. Use promo code "URCUTE" to make her smile cuz she deserves it.


	6. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yennefer doesn't believe the claims Geralt and Ciri spout. So after standing up for himself and taking a drive to find out exactly what happened, Jaskier is requested by the mage to run an experiment to see if they can replicate the incident.

Sun poured in framed windows into a sparsely decorated sitting room. Only a few chairs, a small table, potted plants closest to the windows, and a bookcase long since cleared of any literature. A fine tray of china sat on the table that was separating everyone from each other. Jaskier basked in the warm sun, Yennefer and Cirilla shared a chair just to his side, and Geralt near the doorway in the shade. The sorceress sipped from a cup, her violet eyes just peering through the bard next to her. They had been developed in a long silence, Jaskier and her. She had been lightly conversing with Geralt but Jaskier genuinely thought she had forgotten about him being just feet away from the pair. It was terrifying to have her full, undivided attention for what seemed like full minutes. He shifted in his cushioned chair and almost sunk into it, his eyes shifting to Geralt every once in a while to almost plead for help. The Witcher just let the woman look, but he still kept eyes on her, unsure of what she was thinking. It was always difficult to tell what a mind like hers was coming up with.

She placed her cup on a saucer and then put it back on the table before she sat back, her fingers framing her face as if in thought.

“I’m surprised to you again, bard,” Yennefer simply commented, no explanation following. That simple statement was all, and Jaskier’s face contorted to a mixture of confusion and concern. Like a fish, he decided to bite.

“Why’s that, Yennefer?” he asked as simply as her.

“You wouldn’t expect a human, one as thrill seeking as you, to still be alive after so long. You made me feel old for a solid moment,” She said with a possibly joking smile on her lips. It was hard to tell. She sat forward in her seat, Ciri having to adjust to compensate for the movement, and she clapped her hands together before turning to Geralt. “So. Is there any particular reason the two of you are here, or am I to assume that you two just kissed and made up?”

Geralt narrowed his eyes at the condescending woman who just had a cheeky grin plastered across her lips. Jaskier was visibly taken aback, but he did what he did best and snapped back at the very powerful mage sitting just five feet away from him.

“Is that what you two did or did Geralt develop taste after you?” Jaskier earned a chuckle from all three, though Yennefer’s was a bit more sour. Geralt’s low and one-huffed chuckle cut through it like his blades, giving Jaskier the confidence to sit upright finally. Her eyes just rolled and trained back to Geralt, now expecting an answer.

“Ciri wanted to meet Jaskier so we found him,” he answered dryly, mocking the mage. Just out of the corner of his eye, he saw Jaskier falter. It was minuscule, just a small movement of his head. Geralt didn’t know why the movement struck him, but it did.

“Geralt told me so many stories about the two of you,” Cirilla said in between stuffing her face with a scone smothered in jam. “And then he told me about a bard he used to travel with. I heard about his annoying but overly chipper attitude. I wanted to know how someone like Jaskier would dare hang around Geralt.”

Yennefer smiled at her and ran her fingers through the blonde hair on her head. “That goes for the both of us, starshine,” the sorceress hummed in a sweet tune. Ciri gives her a sweet smile, before shoving the last bit of scone into her mouth. She definitely was being raised by Geralt, wasn’t she?

“So then, why are you here now? What grand venture do you need me to assist with this time?” asked Yennefer as she sunk back into her seat, knowing this song and dance. It wasn’t uncommon for Geralt to ask for her help from time to time, even if he never even actually asked for help. Mostly research on different monsters or just time to watch Cirilla while he ventures out into danger. She never minded, but it had started to become routine.

“No quest this time,” Geralt said, sitting forward a bit. “It’s about him…” The Witcher’s head motioned to Jaskier, himself trying to think of a way to say what had happened. The bard himself shifted his weight to the side, uneasiness setting into his stomach. It was cut off from Ciri spontaneously entering the conversation.

“Jaskier can do magik!” She blurted out with excitement. Yennefer’s eyes widened with almost disbelief before she looked over to the man in question. She just saw his cheeks go red and his eyes avert from hers. Geralt’s head tilted to the side and it nodded for a short second.

“That’s one way to put it,” he commented.

Yennefer stood from her seat and walked over, closing the distance between Jaskier and herself in a matter of seconds. Her hand grabbed his face and moved it around to look into his very skeleton. Geralt instinctively sat forward, planning to keep his promise to the bard. She just looked over him, inspecting every crevasse and groove of his face, as if looking for some sort of sign. Jaskier’s face was beet red and his body filled with panic. Geralt could see his arms reach back to grab the arm rest and his legs firmly plant themselves on the floor, ready to run. He awkwardly laughed, a small tick of his for these types of things. It wasn’t completely unusual for the bard to be pinned into a corner by some demanding female, but one that he knew that could kill him made the whole ordeal loads more intense.

Then came the onslaught of questions.

“Are you human?” Yennefer started.

“Yes,” Answered Jaskier.

“Is your whole family?” Yennefer inquired.

“As far as I’m aware.” Jaskier returned.

“Can any of your siblings use magik?” She quizzed.

“I don’t think so.” He resolved.

“Have you been cursed?” Yennefer demanded to know.

“Only with a voice to rival angels,” Jaskier cooed back sweetly.

Yennefer stood back from him, her hand falling to her hip and giving him one more slow look over. He was shaking where he sat, fearful and very aware of the power she extrudes. He was nothing more than a bard. A human. She was confident that this weak man with no past of sorcery or curses could possibly be anything more.

“He can’t do magik,” she said bluntly, a tinge of insult in her voice.

“But he can,” Ciri adamantly pleaded, who stood next to her, tugging at the coral colored shawl around her arms.

“He did,” Geralt spoke for the first time in a while. He stood and looked Yennefer dead in those amethyst eyes. He was unmoving and spoke in a solid voice, never faltering with the two words he spoke. Geralt never lied, at least to Yennefer, and especially when it came to the mysteries of the world. When Geralt knew something, he knew it to be true. Even if what had happened was just once, it had happened. And Geralt wasn’t about to let this just slip by. The two just stared each other down before Yennefer eventually caved, rubbing the bridge of her nose between her fingers.

“Fine, then. How?” she said, almost frustrated.

“We don’t know how, it’s why we came to see you,” Geralt asserted.

Yennefer let out a loud groan. She never liked being wrong when she knew it. Her hand beat against the side of her dress in slight anger. Jaskier finally took that as a sign to hide and crawled out of his seat before clamoring behind Geralt. His hands perched on The Witcher’s strong bicep and he peered around his girth to watch the scene.

“Fine, Then What? What happened that would let him use magik?” Yennefer emphasized with her hand gesturing towards the accused.

“We were in danger and he…” Geralt paused. He was so unsure. That fight was just a blur to him now, a mixture of determination to protect Ciri and stun at what Jaskier had done. He remembered so little. What caused it? He racked his brain for a moment, Yennefer leaning in to press for an answer. Ciri was silent too. She was too waterlogged at the time to even remember the fight itself.

Jaskier saw the two locked, not being able to really say what had happened. His fear was still a stone in his stomach but he trudged through its weight and stood between Geralt and Yen, speaking clearly and confidently for the first time this interrogation. He did what he was known for; he repainted the story in a vibrant picture, only this time with no embellishments.

“They were in trouble. Ciri nearly drowned and this fool...,” he gestured to the man behind him. “Slipped up while attempting to protect her. He lost his sword and was cornered and I was just...Scared. I feared for the worst and I can’t fight two mighty beasts so I attempted to distract the beasts. I shouted, I sang, I raved to get their attention. Eventually they fell to me, and then I just sort of...Shouted? It’s such a migraine to remember specifics, but they aren't lying. Something happened, it drained me, and I trust that these two know what magik is, and I’ll take their word over my memory any day.”

The room fell still, not even the creaking of floorboards could be heard. Jaskier stood his ground as bravely as one could when facing a gorgeous bringer of death. Ciri’s hand got tighter in the fabric, like she was trying to pull her back from something. She looked so plain now, so silent and thoughtful towards the two men. Her hands were balled fists and her breathing was so much slower than just a few minutes ago. The Witcher knew she was seething just below the skin, but he couldn’t let her act upon it. Geralt held her attention and shook his head. He knew more than anyone what she could do, and Jaskier’s safety was priority right now, above everything else. She flared her nostrils and let out a deep sign, his speechless plee ingraining itself into her.

“If that is what happened,” she began, her voice hushed. “We can run some experiments if you want to see if it can be replicated.”

Jaskier relaxed for a moment, and he felt Geralt release a long held breath against his neck. The Witcher put a strong hand on the bard’s shoulder and patted it once. A wordless show of pride, Jaskier had come to know. It was extremely rare, so he had to force his lips not to smile so he could hold his stern deposition. Yennefer just let out a long sigh before she began to walk out of the sun room.

“Come. We’ll take this to my workspace. I might have the means to an end.” She invited the others to follow her upstairs, which they all did without any hesitation.

Yennefer pushed open a large dark wood door, and what they saw was almost incredible. The large circular room used to be some sort of study. The entire far wall was made up entirely of book shelves, a very large work desk that was coated in books and raw herb clippings. A fainting couch with a small table sat under the gigantic window, a blanket recklessly tossed over it, and a book opened on the floor next to it. Various pots full of strange flora just basking in the light of the floor to ceiling windows. They were all overgrowing and vibrant, much like the plants outside. Everything seemed to be in a state of manic, nothing having a real sense of organization. Yennefer walked over to the desk and scoured over the loose papers and musky books.

“From what I understand of this, what triggered your reaction was Fear,” Yennefer began to think out loud. The remaining three stood behind her, though Jaskier was more attentive to the room and plants themselves than to the sorceress herself. He wasn’t sure exactly how many of them could kill him, he was just very confident that most of them could. It took Ciri holding his hand to keep his mind from reeling.

Yennefer picked up vials of leaves and cuttings, putting some into a mortar, and mashing them into a dry dust. She grabbed a pair of sharp looking sheers before she walked over to a potted plant and clippings off a deep purple colored bloom.

“I’ve worked with potions that accomplish exactly that. One in particular will draw out the very deepest and most intimidating phobia inside you,” she elaborates and points to the bard. He straightened his back and went stiff, his hand tightening around Ciri’s. She held it equally tight, rubbing her thumb over his hand to try and soothe him. Geralt could smell it, anxiety thick in the air surrounding the bard. It made his own stomach churn a bit. Yennefer pushed past them with determination with Geralt’s eyes etching into her. He always respected her practices but this time, for some reason, he was having hesitations.

“Will it harm him?” Geralt asked too seriously.

“Physically, it doesn’t cause damage. Everyone I’ve put under has always recovered in, at most, 2 days. If he isn’t a special case, he should be fully recovered by evening,” She exposited as she worked on mixing the dry ingredients with a concoction of heavily scented oils. Her answer didn’t exactly ease Jaskier.

“So what does that exactly entail?” A slight wave to Jaskier’s voice. “What will I be recovering from, precisely?”

She started to squeeze a large dose of liquid into a cup close by; a black icor that reflected greens and pinks with ease. “Well,” she started, smelling the putrid contents of the almost potion. “You’ll drink this, to start. Then your vision will begin to tunnel and you’ll go blind. Slowly after, you’ll begin to go deaf to the world around you. Then your body will begin to feel like pins and needles, everything going to sleep except your mind. You’ll be able to speak throughout all of it.” She was so slow speaking, casual about all she was saying. “What we’re hoping for is that you’ll panic and then destroy something or throw someone.”  
Jaskier was shaking. His knuckles were ash white around Ciri’s firm hold, and he was just scared. This is what Geralt was nervous about. He hated the thought of Jaskier suffering for the knowledge of whatever this could be. Hated the image of Jaskier being prodded and tortured to get some form of magik to reveal itself. Loathed the mere thought of Jaskier hurting because the world needed answers. His stomach went sick, seeing the bard so scared. He reached out to grab the poor man’s shoulder to pull him back, to reassure him that this wasn’t needed.

Jaskier though, took an abrupt step forward, his breath hitching and his body relaxing almost. “And you think this will work?” Jaskier asks.

“It may, but if it doesn’t we do have other options that we can try tomorrow,” Yennefer informed. It was true, she had a whole smattering of ideas in her head about how to go about this. Geralt could see the cogs turning in her head about the situation.

“Jaskier, you don’t need to do this,” Geralt said calmly. “We can-,”

“No, I’m doing it,” Jaskier declared. He held an air of bravery and determination, though he still had a look of cowardice deep set in his eyes. He turned to look at Geralt full on. “You said something happened, and it hurt me. If it is something that I have to live with, and if it is something I can control, I’m willing to do this. I trust you to protect me if something goes wrong, Geralt. And if you trust Yennefer, then...I suppose I do too,” he hesitated just a bit with the last part, giving the woman a look of almost trust. 

Yennefer handed The Bard the cup and crossed her arms, almost expectant on him drinking it now. He only had to hold it to his chest to smell the most gut retching scent he had ever smelt. It was worse than rot, death, hell, worse than Geralt after weeks of road travel and monster slaying. His head visibly pulled back, his body just rejecting the idea of drinking it all together. It was less than a shot worth of icor but that was more than enough.

“Do I...Have to drink it as is? Or can I mix it with something to, um, dull the flavor?” he attempted to negotiate. Yennefer rolled her eyes so hard they might have been stuck in the back of her head. A groan followed her snide look.

“We can mix it with Tea, if you really want,” she offered, sarcasm emphasizing the last part.

“Please?” Jaskier pleaded, giving the cup back to the sorceress. She snatched it from his hand and started to walk towards the door, Ciri following her in tow. She always liked sitting on the table and talking to Yennefer while she cooked or made tea. Her hand slipped from Jaskier’s grip and it left him empty and vulnerable again. Geralt saw his fingers curl around nothing but air and then ball into a fist. He shoved back a thought of replacing Ciri’s hand with his own, crossing his own arms instead.

“You,” Yennefer stated, pointing at the bard. “Go sit in the chair and relax.” The woman left to go and make tea with the little girl trailing behind. Yennefer began to hold as much saliva in her mouth as possible, definitely going to spit in the bard’s tea for her troubles.

Jaskier obeyed, walking over to the fainting couch and gently placing himself down into it. It was comfy, well worn in and smelling of age and fruity perfumes. Geralt followed him, keeping his distance. He could still smell the other’s anxiety, but it has faded. His bravery was admirable but unexpected. He had seen the bard in blind fits of bravery before, but this one didn’t seem blind. It was always hard to know what Jaskier was thinking but Geralt could piece together parts this time. Deep fascination with the unknown that Geralt has sheltered him from for too long, a nervousness about what may happen to him, and a need for answers about something bigger than him. Jaskier was always one to throw himself into danger recklessly, and this time seemed to be even more so since it pertained to Him being the danger.

Geralt was always the one to pull him out of danger, and he’d be damned if he wasn’t going to try if any of this went wrong.

“You look more scared than me and it’s, in turn, terrifying me,” Jaskier commented, looking up at the stoic man who seemed to have been caught staring. Geralt wouldn’t deny that he may have been hovering over Jaskier just a little bit.

“I’m just...concerned,” Geralt admitted.

“Concerned? Is The White Wolf concerned about his friend?” Jaskier practically sang. He scooched over just to be closer to the other, teasing Geralt about his countless declarations about how they weren’t friends. Geralt’s eyes followed his movements, the pair almost touching now. Jaskier looked up to him with those brave blue eyes of his. His smug smile pulled at Geralt’s cheeks ever so slightly.

“Concerned I’ll have to pay you back if I can’t keep my promise,” Geralt joked. He heard a small laugh deep in Jaskier’s diaphragm, sarcastic or sincere he wasn’t completely sure.

“I wouldn’t make you do that,” Jaskier hums, that laugh just barely leading his words. “I have full faith that you can keep our deal.” Geralt’s cheeks were warm, if they were red, he wasn’t controlling himself. The tiniest smile on his own lips, he couldn’t break his eyes away from Jaskier. His hand lifted and landed on Jaskier’s shoulder, who instantly looked a bit suspicious of The Witcher’s intentions.

“I’ll try,” Geralt said, his hand patting the other’s shoulder a few times. Jaskier, being the touchy feely person he is, rested his hand upon Geralt’s. He could feel the new calluses in Jaskier’s hands, either from his years of pirateering or even more years of practice. Both their hands lingered for almost too long, before Yennefer came through the door with the cup on a saucer. Ciri was still telling her stories of their venture to find Jaskier, Yennefer seemingly enthralled in the child’s tales.

“ And then we went to the coast! I collected so many weird shells and rocks, and ate the freshest fish I think I’d ever had! And Jaskier was a pirate and…” Ciri continued. Geralt and Jaskier’s hands dropped from their perch on his shoulder. Jaskier tenses as Yennefer is now standing over him, the cup steaming and slightly better smelling.

“Lay back,” She instructed. He complied and sat back, taking the saucer into his hands and taking a deep breath. Yennefer and Ciri sat beside him and Geralt moved behind him, both his hands on his back rest. “Drink it all and quickly. If you don’t, you’ll be lucid and still awake. We need you under.”

Jaskier looked up to Geralt and then to the two girls at his side. He breathed in and out deeply, before raising the cup up in a toast.

“Cheers,” he said before he downed the mixture in two large gulps. His body desperately wanted it out of him, his throat closing and coughing and beginning to gag. Yennefer took the cup from him and placed it on the floor and out of the way. Geralt patted the poor bard’s back before he settled into his space again. The Witcher’s hands didn’t leave his shoulder’s just yet. Jaskier was breathing deeply but he didn’t feel sick. Sure, he had a disgusting taste in his mouth, but so far, that was it. He just relaxed as much as he could, waiting for something to happen. They all seemed to be waiting for something to happen. The sun was irritating the bard more than anything, it blurring his vision and making him squint. His hands began to rub and block out light, but it was hard.

“Don’t you have curtains?” Jaskier said as he frantically rubbed his eyes that began to almost itch. “The sun is unbearable.”

All three looked out the windows. It was after noon, there was no sun peering in the windows since the room was on the east side of the house. Geralt looked back down and saw the bard’s eyes almost tearing up as he was just obsessively rubbing them. He pulled his hands back from his watery eyes. Then Jaskier yelps, his hand grabbing where he felt Geralt’s. Yennefer’s hand goes to push Ciri back a bit, protecting her from anything and anything.

“G-Geralt...I Can’t See,” he stammered. Jaskier’s head tilted up to where he remembered the other stood and it was almost looking in a mirror. Jaskier’s eyes were pitch, the veins around them dark. They had that same shine the liquid did, swirling and reflecting few colors. Geralt just held the hand that Jaskier touched him with, squeezing it tight.

“I know. It’s working,” he calmly said. Yennefer stood and pulled Cirilla out of the way of Jaskier, worrying about what could happen. She looked at Geralt to move, but he stayed firmly behind the bard, just letting Jaskier squeeze his hand for comfort. He could feel the woman shooting daggers into him.

Next, Jaskier’s head began to tilt to one side, and then it bowed forward, a ringing as loud as church bells in his ears. He lurched forward and Geralt still held him, even through the winces and cries that Jaskier uttered. Geralt couldn’t count how many times his name was called but they were all strained. Eventually, Jaskier let go of the other, his hands cupping his ears to try and protect them from whatever was causing this ringing. The witcher just wanted to grab him again, hold him, and let him know that it wasn’t real. Before he could even dare to touch Jaskier, Yennefer swooped his hand in hers and pulled him back, giving him a dirty look.

“He needs to think he’s in danger!” she shot at him in a hushed voice. His amber eye landed on the bard, who slowly settled back to a resting state, shock filling his face. His hand reached back to where Geralt was and landed on fabric. His fingers dug into the spot and Geralt just wanted to be there, but Yennefer and his own body betrayed him. He listened to Yennefer and stayed by her, a small ‘Hmm’ escaping his chest.

Finally, Jaskier’s body started to shake, his limbs desperately trying to keep themselves awake and aware. His legs thrashed every so often and his head shook vigorously to hold on. His hands just began rubbing his arms, as if he were trying to warm himself up from a nonexistent chill. Jaskier curled into the corner of the couch and let his head fall on it’s side, his bottom jaw chattering. Then, all at once, he was motionless, his hands in his lap and his legs just barely tucked into himself. He was breathing, Geralt could hear, and his heart had settled into a rhythm close to a sleeping pattern. Those black eyes were still open, and they moved around to seemingly look at things. Yennefer took a few steps forward, Ciri cowering into her stronger guardian. The mage just looked at him, brushing bangs out his eyes and touching his cheek for a reaction. There was none.

“It’s done,” she said, stepping back to face Geralt. “Now...we wait.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy valentines day! Hope you all are enjoying this day of love, if not spent loving someone else, then spent by loving yourself! Sorry it took a moment to write this chapter, I've been a little under stress. Next chapter should be updated in a week or so! It's gonna be real....Tasty :)
> 
> Roses are red, My favorite fish is a Dace, Let us all love our beta reader, @Miscellaneous_Ace !


	7. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The potion has taken full affect, but Yennefer finds the results lack-luster. Emotions change and Yennefer hatches a plan with Geralt to get the results they're after.

“This is ridiculous,” Yennefer groaned a bit.

The sky had long since begun to darken, stars splattered across the very top of the atmosphere, twinkling faintly in the far distance. Many candles had illuminated in the coming dusk from a snap of Yennefer’s well manicured fingers. Geralt and herself had pulled up two chairs close to the couch, both just watching intently over Jaskier’s form. Ciri was still present, but at the desk, Yennefer put her to study after hours of nothing happening. Geralt was rested back deeply into the crook of the chair, his arms crossed across his chest and his head tilted back in a light meditation. Yennefer, on the other, just began to stand again, pacing in front of the couch with a hand on her chin and annoyance in her voice.

She leaned into Jaskier’s space to look at him fully. He was still breathing, and there was faint movement in his bottom lip quivering lightly. Tears occasionally run down his cheeks and then fall onto his blouse. Eyes still black and glossed over, Jaskier had been still for going on four hours now, and not once in this long slumber has he so much as whined.

“Geralt, did you hear me?” She asked over her shoulder. Geralt tilted his head up lazily and looked at Jaskier first, seeing the same sight as the minutes before, before turning his attention to the woman who had probably asked him a question.

“Hmm?” He requested for her to repeat.

“I said,” she huffed, her voice straining into a small tinge of frustration. “This is ridiculous! He hasn’t screamed or cried or so much as MUMBLED since he’s been under!” Her hand grabbed his face by the chin, tilting the eyes up to meet hers. More tears streamed down the sides of his face as the shift in gravity pulled them down. His skin was cold, almost sickly so, but his cheeks were flushed as if he had been sobbing. “Who is this bard to gently weep in the face of his most fearsome foe? Is he an idiot?” Yennefer began to lose herself in the throes of hypotheses.

Geralt barely listened to the woman go on, his eyes just fixated on the pale man captured in her grasp. The Witcher’s heart was aching for the bard to do anything in this forced state. A scream full of power and force that could shatter windows, just to get Yennefer to agree to help, a soft incantation or move of fingers to show that he was awake and alive deep within himself...for those royal eyes of his to retake their throne in his sockets. Geralt just wanted a sign from Jaskier. Worry flooded the Witcher’s veins the moment the bard went down, and it has sat like a bad meal in his stomach ever since. 

“What even are you seeing, little songbird?” she hummed. Her hand moved from his chin, her fingers now sprawled onto five specific points on his face. She was now determined to see what was happening in his head, dead set on seeing what he faced so fearlessly. Her eyes lulled back into her skull and her fingertips gave a slight glow while a string of faint words fell from her lips.  
Geralt knew this move well. He has asked her to use it on whichever captive he felt wasn’t giving him proper information or who withheld secrets from him. She was peering into his mind and thoughts, the deeper reaches he could assume, from the way her whole body seemed to shudder. He leaned forward to see if either of the two would react. Neither did for a long moment.

Ciri had overheard Yennefer’s exasperated whines and decided to sneak over to the scene while she was distracted. She was always one to tell her when she had done enough studying, but her own worry for her new friend had been eating at her; now especially because of the scene. Her hand rested on the back of Geralt’s rickety chair. It was hard to sneak up on a Witcher, Geralt especially, but from the way he had to do a double take when he looked at her gave her a small boost in confidence in herself, as well as sent a chill down her spine. He turned in his seat to give her his full attention, though it still felt shared.

“You’re getting good at that,” Geralt complimented in a soft voice. “Your footsteps were light, your breathing was controlled...Just need to work on keeping calm.” His large hand brushed back a few hairs that were dangling in her face, tucking them behind her ear. Ciri was offered such a soft smile from the other but it didn’t seem to ease her the way Geralt was hoping.

“I can’t feel calm when Jaskier is so...Quiet,” she confessed a bit. She had only known him for the better part of a couple of weeks but his singing and his company had already wormed its way into her heart. His aura could range from bubbly and excited to one of pure serenity that she couldn’t help falling into. Jaskier’s noise, though new, had become such a pillar in her day to day life. He was just so genuine, and Geralt seemed to even be a tad bit more relaxed with him around. It was a nice change to see.

His hand landed on her shoulder, patting it lightly before he looked back over his own. “I know...I don’t like it either. But if this is how we help him, then so it shall be,” he reassured her. He saw her eyes trail over to the pair of statues that were his friends. Light tears were now running down the sides of Yennefer’s face. Her breathing became heavy and almost labored. Geralt’s eyes went wide and he bolted up from his chair and swiftly moved to Yennefer’s side, unsure if he should grab or touch to pull her from this trance. Her hand jerked back into her chest and she took in a large gulp of air, her voice cracked and hoarse. Geralt gently grabbed her shoulders to hold her while she came back into reality.

She was shaken. Her eyes still wide and wet, her nose beginning to run. The Witcher attempted to make contact with her, but she always kept her face shielded from his. Her shoulders were tensed and pulled taught in Geralt’s grip. She was filled with...Guilt, is what she could equate to. What she saw in Jaskier, Yennefer decided, was horrible and gruesome and hideous, and all she felt well up inside her was a sense of kinship and disgrace. The whole vision was a blur but one that her eyes had seen before. Her hand muted her mouth as she contained a few restrained sobs. Yennefer’s eyes just barely glanced at Geralt from their corners, and it hurt to see him, and not in a way it had before.

They stood for a solid minute as Yennefer composed herself, wiping away the running makeup from her eyes and the thick mucus from her nose before she settled into a place to talk. Geralt held her firm and close until she did.

“He…” she clamored for a moment. “His fear…” she fought for words to spill from her tongue. It was a short battle in her head to decide on whether a lie would be better than the truth. Her eyes carried from Jaskier’s still dormant face to the man that had held her so many different times before. Her heart ached but made a decision; a truce.

“He’s afraid of being forgotten,” she finally relayed back to the two of them. “Any bard’s greatest fear is to leave the world without a legacy. It’s...Frightening for sure but not enough to make him scream.” She held herself up straight again, a quiet but firm signal for Geralt to let go. He does, but he still stays close to her.

“So this was a waste?” Geralt asked, his hand motioning to the catatonic man.

“Not entirely,” Yennefer says, her arms crossed. She seemed...Angry with Geralt in a way. “With him out like this we can construct my backup plan without him knowing.” She shook her head and started walking towards the door. Geralt looked confused at both her statement and movement. “Grab the bard and we’ll bring him to a bed so he can sleep the remainder of this off. Then we’ll discuss our next steps.”

Yennefer walked out of the room, her dress a flowing stream behind her. Without any other questioning, Geralt gently lifted the bard into his arms. He settled Jaskiers head against his own chest for support and Geralt tried desperately not to look into those pitch eyes of his. His head turned to Ciri and nodded, the girl walking in front of him to guide the way for the pair. 

The room was just down the hall, not four doors down. It was a large canopy bed that was without curtains, two windows that faced out into the front yard, and a gloriously large dark oak wardrobe that Yennefer leaned against. Cirilla had already peeled back the sheets and stood just off to the side for Geralt to ever-so-gently lay the man out into what he remembered the bard slept like; On his side with his knees tucked almost completely into himself. Geralt stepped back, Ciri pulled the covers over him, and Yennefer shoved off from her perch.

“So what is this plan you’ve been concocting?” Geralt asked her, curious as to all this mysteriousness she’s been extruding.

“Simple. We replicate the event. You two appear to be in peril, I’ll push him into a corner where the only option he has is to hurt me or die,” Yennefer said all too bluntly. “Put on a good fight for me, won’t you Witcher?”

Geralt had a moment of thought, a long one stitched together by a silent 'hmm' half way through. Yennefer was intelligent, more than most people he had even heard of in his multi century long life, and her plans were equally genius. But this one...it felt dirty. He was already walking the line when Yennefer laid him out not hours before, when Jaskier began to claw for Geralt for protection, when Jaskier began to cry in his sleep. Geralt hated this plan and protest was what he begged himself to do. Though the other half of his mind still trusted Yen. She was a genius yes, this plan was gross for sure, but would this be what works? He was never a man of science, but the sorceress, in the past, got the best results from replicating the events in which they took place. And after all, is her plan anything other than what had happened at the river?

Geralt's voice clawed and begged for his head to say 'no' and for them to just pick up and leave, for them to just forget the whole ordeal and let Jaskier live in a thick and blissful ignorance about himself. Jaskiers last words crept in, the bard standing up for himself even if he wasn't here to speak. Geralt's mind won this battle once again.

"And this will be what works?" He asked the woman, hesitance lacing every sound. "This...Fight will draw it out of him?"

"If it doesn't then I'm confident it was never there to begin with, the bard just had all his luck cashed in at once," Yennefer determined as her violet eyes lingered over Jaskiers body.

"And he won't be hurt?" Geralt began. "He and Ciri?" He swiftly followed up with. The girl was sitting on the foot of the bed, listening to this whole ordeal attentively.

"Ciri I can promise won't be harmed, you either for that matter," Yennefer swore as she walked over to Geralt, her arms folded in on themselves. Her eyes still laid firmly on the other man. "He might be more...At risk. I won't kill him, gods know we need him alive. A slash to his arm or a beating though, I won't keep those out of my arsenal."

Geralt's arm grabbed hers, his hand tightening a bit around her skinny bicep. His voice was low and close to her, filled with threat. "You won't hurt him. At all, Yennefer," he commanded the woman. He made one promise to that man and every star in the sky can fall before he breaks it. This wasn't fair to him.  
Yennefer's eyes never once met Geralt's face, her head never moved to show him any of herself. She seemed a country away from The Witcher, and he could smell what she had for breakfast on her breath.

"And when did you become this bard's knight in shining armor?" She snapped in a whispered tone. "When you almost killed him with a Djinn? Or was it when you made him leave? Because I must say, you have some strange tactics, Sir Witcher." Geralt heard the words, felt them slice deep into his soul, but Yennefer's mouth never moved. Through her torture, Cirilla was spared those secrets. For that, he was grateful, but he still felt as if he had been kicked straight in his sternum by a stallion. The wind was knocked out of him all at once and he was reminded of his sins, his mistakes.

His hand loosened its grip, sinking just a small bit to above her elbow, for a solid moment Yennefer thought she had won. She moved to step away, to plot this fight like a stage play. Unexpectedly, however, Geralt's hand gripped her again, tighter than before, almost lifting her.

"You won't hurt him. That's Final," he said, deadpan. This damn promise would kill him.

Yennefer just stood and stared at the defiant man. She searched those amber eyes of his to find the part of him that was lying, joking, the part of him she knew too well; the side of Geralt that would run away again. She couldn't find it.

Her eyes relaxed but her stance was still firm, as if she hadn't just lost her own game. She had forbidden herself from ever saying it, but she was proud of Geralt at that moment.

"Understood," she hummed. "I won't harm him." Her promise was the key to the lock that was Geralt's grip, his hand falling to his hip. He stepped back a foot and watched Yennefer clap her hands, before an almost devious look took hold of her face.

"Well then. I suppose we get rehearsing," she began, walking to the doorway. "Let us be ready for when he wakes up. Nothing like a rude awakening to truly strike terror in someone."

The night swept over the estate with an eagerness, the full moon shining vibrantly through the opened window of Jaskeir’s room. His head wasn’t reeling or hurting, like he expected it would be to come back to the realm of the living, though he still felt thoroughly dead. Aware and awake, but almost floating in a sense. His emotions were drained and gone, not even a sense of happiness was to be found from leaving such a dark recess. A ghost, if he truly had to put a word to it. He woke up only a minute ago but he decided it would just be better to stay in the bed he found himself mysteriously in. It was night and he didn’t want to disturb any of the others in case they had all gone to sleep waiting for him. The bard had suspected from the way he wasn’t immensely sore or how no one was near him, nothing had happened in the end. His hand just rubbed his eye deeply, vigorously until his vision went blurry. He just rolled back over to his side and stared into the dark room, understanding where everything was. Jaskier wasn’t tired, nor did he really want to close his eyes. The sleep he had just awoken from hadn’t been forgiving. His eyes just roamed and watched while he waited for his body to fall back into that void of sleep or for morning to come.

And he waited. And he listened. And he heard.

A scream, one that could curtel the bravest of man’s blood, just outside in the yard. He shot up in an instant, ready to run and find Geralt. He flung the blanket off of him and scrambled for the window, and for a moment he thought he hadn’t woken up at all.

The yard was a bramble of dark thorny bushes, trees that moved autonomously, and a hideous scene that caused him to well with dread. Cirilla completely imprisoned and entangled by these viscous plants, Yennefer in a hideous state of herself, lost in the throes of whatever magik had possessed her, and Geralt…He was slammed to a tree, a sword in his hand but his arms stuck to his sides while tree branches wrapped around him like large and hungry snakes. Even from a story up and dozens of feet away, Jaskier could see that the Witcher, the White Wolf, was stuck and struggling and as good as dead. The bard had felt this feeling before, a sense of bravery and stupidity that had taken him weeks ago.

With the swiftness of a lark, he bolted downstairs, but not quite to the door. He wound his way back to that seating area from just that morning, a tray of food and tea long cold. Everything was still as he remembered, including the lute case that he had placed behind his chair. Jaskier’s hands were quick with it, his hands searching in the dark for pouch. It laid on the inside of the case, firmly pressed against Jaskier’s back when he slung the thing over his shoulder. It was meant for papers, quills, or a matter of small, flat things that could be stowed away in it. Long ago, however, so many years, Jaskier had found use far more useful for the almost impossibly slim pocket. His hand found it and drew from it a short blade, one with a black hilt and a blade only about 12 inches long that was swaddled by a leather sheath. In the light of the moon, his eyes could barely make out the markings of a wolf decoration. The bard drew the weapon, the steel almost like new, it glistened in the moon’s light brilliantly

Jaskier brought the blade close to his chest, breathing deep and collecting himself and his nerves before he made his way out the front door, and into the frey.

Geralt could feel Jaskier from half a yard away; Could hear his racing heart, could smell the thick scent of fear, could see the glistening dagger in the bard’s grip. He was elated to see the bard up and awake and very much alive, a thick blanket of relief draping over him. He almost forgot to do what Yennefer instructed. The signal was simple; when the bard comes out, Geralt drops his sword. His very instincts were fighting him, begging him to try and protect his companions. This was what was needed, though, so his fingers loosened, and the witcher begrudgingly let the blade fall into the grass.

Yennefer’s form was bastardized, her hair floating and everything around her seemingly caught in a heat wave. Her violet eyes were intense and bright and sick, and they glanced over Geralt, before training on the bard. Her fingers curled tight and the branches around Geralt squeezed a heavy shout out of the man. They weren’t crushing, but it made his ribcage ache.

“Look at it,” her voice calls out to Jaskier in a wretched echo, ringing in his head. His hand with the dagger raised and he turned it to be upside down. His stance was wide and steady, but she could see him shake. She taunted him further as dark bramble bushes sprouted from the ground, spreading towards the bard’s legs. “Look at what you can’t stop.”

Those dark barbed vines began to crawl up his legs and pull and tighten. Jaskier began to slash at the plants, trying to cut himself free from these mysterious plants that Yennefer was seemingly controlling. They cut his pants, but he never felt their barbs enter his skin. He took this as a sign, one that Yennefer truly was in there somewhere deep, and she didn’t want to hurt him.

“Yennefer! I Have No Idea What You’re Doing, but I think you should stop now!” He called out. Geralt’s eyes just rolled before they tried to hold their place on the scene. He watched as the vines now overcame Jaskier, gripping and wrapping around him, even his feet lift off the ground as he is consumed by a bush of writhing tendrils. They trailed up his chest and firmly gripped Jaskier’s form tight. “Gods, please stop!” he pleaded, praying that her intelligent side could still be reached.

She never moved closer, never needing to. Everything was under her control, and if what she was expecting to happen did occur, being a few feet back might be a safe bet. She projected more taunts directly into Jaskier’s head, and his head alone. 

“If you want it to stop, save them,” she called, Jaskier looking her deep in those violet eyes. His throat was being encroached by the vines. She could feel him fighting.

“If you want them alive, fight me,” her voice teased. His eyes shut tight and he was breathing deeper and faster. He was gripping and fighting for something, something deep and cold and unfamiliar in him to act up, his words on the cusp of something but unable to summon the will. Yennefer felt him struggling and trying, she knew what he was doing. He was close and desperate, clawing at a wall inside himself and she could feel it in him.

“If you want to prove yourself to him, then hurt me,” her words pierced him like a spear. His arm was fighting and curling up, the dagger being prepared for anything. Jaskier stopped grasping at the something in front of him and it pissed Yennefer off. She felt him stop the fight within himself, and she became frustrated with how close he was. It was agonizing to her, and her head fell from the premeditated plan. Damned be Geralt, and Damned be his barrier between her and what could be the next greatest discovery in Arcane History.

She flared with anger, her eyes fixed on the bard’s hand. Jaskier was pushing hard against her coiling plants, but she wouldn’t have it. A few more sprouted from the ground, her hand raising as if conducting them. One tightly wrapped around his wrist and pulled it to the side, out of the way of his body, before the bard let out a tight and painful scream. Geralt’s eyes go wide with a rage he’s only felt a few times before as he sees the events unfold. One of the large tendril roots shot through the very palm that once held the dagger, the weapon itself on the ground and now being coated in Jaskier’s garnet blood. The Witcher began to push and struggle to loosen the plants grip on him, knowing this act has now gone too far. His restraints don’t give.

“Yennefer! That’s Enough!” His shout fell on deaf ears. Cirilla took Geralt’s words as the call off, and herself began to untangle and free herself from the much looser grips. She was still trapped in a tangle of branches, but she could move, and she tried to move as quick as she could. When she finally reached the ground, she rushed over to Geralt and hoisted the heavy blade into her hands to start carving at the thick wooden tendrils, but they gave way only slivers and splints. She worked as fast as the material would let her.

“Fight me, you bastard! Let go and strike me down so I can see you’re not useless!” her voice screamed in his head, repeating at it reverberated against the walls of his skull. Jaskier found himself stuck, slammed against a wall and left without a way out. He dug and thought and tried to get this thing that was in him to come out. But no matter how hard he clawed, it wouldn’t emerge. His hand stung deep and his muscles wouldn’t dare budge against Yennefer’s hold. He hated this, hated everything around him, he felt such a long lost emotion of distaste cross his tongue. Unconsciously, as if he expected the song to be his dying words, a quiet tune began to bellow from his lips, a ballad he only intended for his ears to hear.

“Her current is pulling you closer, and charging the hot humid night,” he choked out, the song almost a whisper, only for him. “The red sky at dawn is giving you warning, you fool, better stay out of sight.” There were long pauses between the lyrics as the vines took a light hold on the sides of his throat. His cerulean irises landed on Geralt and his chest ached.

“I’m weak, my love,” the ghost of his voice said. Then the winds shifted.

Yennefer felt it, something changed in the air as she pushed him as far as Jaskier could bend. She knew he was talking, but something within him blocked her from hearing him. Yennefer’s eyes could faintly see his lips moving but there was no sound at all. The winds began to push against her and she took a step back. The vine deep in Jaskier’s hand retracted and she felt it, a force of something magical striking her chest. Her lips curled into a smile and her grip on the bard tightened while the plants around Geralt completely retracted. He fell five feet onto the ground, Cirilla handing him the sword without any objection. The girl went into a defensive stance alongside Geralt, herself ready to intervene. The man began to walk against the winds and towards the now crazed Yennefer, but he stopped when he saw the dagger on the ground began to float.

Jaskier was scared out of his mind, and his eyes were shut tight once more. He didn’t see that the drawn out notes on his breath caused the weapon to dance just above his face. His pitch was perfect and as he peaked on the note, just on the cusp of falling, the dagger steadied. And then it flew.

The next moments were a blur. Geralt saw a flash of metal and then Yennefer on her back, a hilt protruding from her side. Everything that was once overgrowing, retracted and died, returning to the earth. Jaskier tumbled onto the ground abruptly, his concentration falling along with him. His eyes opened and saw a worried Witcher, a young girl rushing towards him, and a sorceress on the ground, beginning to laugh. Jaskier began to feel the tears running down his cheeks. Ciri met him and hugged him tight, his arm flinging itself around her back, holding her just as sincerely. His throat was that same raw and rasped it had been. He really thought he’d be happy when he replicated that event.

“I expected something else, but at least we have an answer!” Yennefer shouted almost maniacally. Geralt just looked at her like she had gone insane, which he was confident she had. His eyes rushed over to where Jaskier sat on the ground and his body began to carry him towards the bard, sick with anxiety and the thick stone of guilt returned to his stomach. “Our plan worked!” Yennefer said.

Geralt was yards away and he saw the hurt in Jaskier’s eyes, meeting him the moment Yennefer confirmed his suspicions. The bard stood, grabbing the hand that was profusely hurting and oozing blood. Geralt took a few steps towards him, trying to find the words that he was promised he wouldn’t have to say. His calloused hand reached out to hold Jaskier’s shoulder, but he was pushed back only a few inches, and a dark, damp hand print now plastered on his shirt. Jaskier was angry and sad and it was such a depressingly familiar scent that flooded Geralt’s senses, but he was thoroughly drowned beneath the heavy and dark waves of Jaskier’s broken voice.

“You PROMISED Me,” the bard cried, the words like the shattered glass of a beautiful stained window of a church. Without anything else, the bard rushed back into the house, Ciri following him to hopefully heal that hand of his. Geralt wanted to run, wanted to take the crying Jaskier into his arms and hold him, wanted to beg for a scrap of forgiveness from the bard, wanted to say so many words that he wanted to say five years ago. Everything is repeating. Geralt found a second chance and he squandered it like he had the first time.

His body stayed planted where he was, stuck in time. He didn’t move until Yennefer’s and landed on his shoulder. She was hunched over and filthy looking, blood causing her dress to cling to her and become dark. She was silent and collected it seemed. Yennefer could feel his pain, intense and ravaging him from the inside out like a plague. Her magik didn’t need to push into his head to feel that, she could instead sense the tensing in his shoulders. His eyes were trapped on where Jaskier stood just moments ago in front of him and Geralt’s hand tightened into the red splotch on his chest left by the bard.

Yennefer hated things being stalled; Magical research, the next great dawn to humanity...Her friends' feelings. A wall of guilt had come crashing down upon her and she hated the feeling of being wrong, always had and always will. She let out a long sigh before her hand gripped the dagger in her side.  
“No...No fuck this,” she started, catching Geralt’s attention. He loathed this woman at the moment but couldn’t find the energy to fight. He did, however, hold her steady when she started to pull at the weapon embedded in her side. “Gods above, not this again. I’m not living with this for five years again. This was my fault, gods be damned to hell, and I’m not letting you take this.” She huffed. Yennefer had kept it in her mind for so long that Jaskier left because of her, and she always knew it was true, even after every time Geralt reassured her it wasn’t. She couldn’t live with him for centuries if she knew his misery was her indirect work. She had seen it for five years, she didn’t need any more.

Yennefer’s hand swiftly plucked the dagger from her, a pained yelp escaping her throat, before it was eased by a glow of her other hand hovering over the open wound. Geralt watched her in a state of confused shock. He didn’t get a chance to say anything though, before the thickly coated dagger was thrust into his possession.

“Go inside and wait. I swear, by the end of the night, I will make that bard focus all his hate onto me, but not you,” Yennefer reassured, locking eyes with Geralt. “If he demands I leave, so be it. This wasn’t your fault. You don’t deserve this, and...I’m sorry.” Her begrudging apology was the last thing she said to Geralt before she rushed inside after the others.

Geralt was left alone with the dagger. He turned it in his hand and felt something tug at his chest. He made his way back into the house and into a room just off from the kitchen, doing as the sorceress instructed. He waited.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait y'all! Shit happened! I'm a year older now, My place of employment is falling apart at the seams, and i opened up art commissions! SO...Yeah. But i hope this extra long chapter helps make up for my neglect of this fic. Also, hey. That angst huh? Please consult a doctor if you have a heart issue before you read cuz this shit gonna HURT.
> 
> We interrupt this regularly scheduled broadcast with a weather emergency alert: In the case of being presented with the anomaly that is Miscellaneous ace, experts say you should hug her and give her a kudos because of her sheer good vibes.


	8. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yennefer, blooming with guilt, sits Jaskier down and makes him listen to her plea. Geralt left alone, he reminisces an old memory and starts gathering his energy to say goodbye.

The house had gone deadly silent after Jaskier had stormed off to his room. He just sat on the edge of the large bed, tears rushing down his cheeks, as Cirilla tried her hardest to heal the remnants of Jaskier’s palm. Each attempt left him sore and in pain, but he’d rather sit through the sensation of his bones mending back together than dare tell her she was doing it wrong. Magic had always been an obscure thing to Jaskier, even more so that he could seemingly use it now. Everything was still beyond him, especially what the hell he was doing here.

What had he expected, honestly? This was his own fault, crawling back to a world of danger and heroics, destiny and lies. He should have learned his lesson the last time Geralt had led him on like this, his words and promises so empty, even though they felt so full. Fool me twice, as they say, and Jaskier surely felt like the biggest fool this side of the continent.

He was ripped from his self loathing the moment he felt a very sharp and very intense pain rip through his entire arm, causing him to let out a rasped cry of pain.He couldn’t hold that one down. It felt like someone had just stabbed him through the palm again and then carved up the length of his forearm, splitting his bone in twain. His hand began to gush blood again, and Cirilla was clambering to get anything to wrap the thing up. She settled for the blanket Jaskier sat on, regardless if Yennefer liked it or not.

“Sorry! Sorry, I must...I must have hit a nerve or...or Something,” her voice was so unsure. She only ever had healed slashes or broken fingers or burns before. This was way out of her comprehension. Her words wavered, frustrated and tired and guilty, tears were already wetting her eyes. Ciri wanted to meet Jaskier so badly, wanted to get to know him, and now more than ever, she wanted to learn who this person that Geralt travelled with so religiously. She knew how happy he made Geralt, but now...Everything was slipping away.

“No no no no no, you’re alright,” Jaskier attempted to soothe her, his good hand cupping her cheek, his thumb wiping away her tears. Gods, his voice was shocked, but he would go mute if it kept the girl from crying. “I’m okay, Everything is okay, please, don’t cry. You’re strong, sunflower, so very strong.” She leaned into him and the hug was solidifying, grounding the two of them in this disgusting haze of emotions. His good hand ran up and down her back, smoothing the hitches in her breath as she wept into his chest. Jaskier became so focused on making sure Cirilla wasn’t upset that he failed to notice Yennefer’s quiet entrance into the chambers. He only noticed her presence when the door clacked shut behind her.

His eyes landed on her, the side of her dress cut and soaked through with blood of a healed wound, the scarred tissue still sewing itself together, her face as soft as a patch of prairie in the spring sun, and Jaskier reflectively hugged Ciri tighter. His hand throbbed just at the sight of her. Ciri must have heard her come in, since he could feel her head twist to face her, but she was still firmly planted into Jaskier’s warmth. 

“You’re doing good for never healing an impalement injury. He isn’t dead, so that’s certainly something,” Yennefer complimented gently as she took a few steps forward. “I suppose now is no better time than to teach you how to heal these wounds properly.” Yennefer’s hand landed on Ciri’s shoulder, ever so gently, and the girl pulled back from the bard, leaving him empty and exposed to this...witch. He leaned back, not wanting her to be anywhere near him. When Ciri reached for his hand, Jaskier pulled it close to his chest.

“What are you doing here?” He asked in a deeply cynical tone. His voice just made Yennefer very aware of his disdain for her, aware of how much she wasn’t wanted. She knelt down and then sat on the floor, looking up at the bard. Jaskier read her eyes, saw the deep sense of empathy in them. Jaskier also knew not to trust what he read.

“I’m here to speak to you,” Yennefer answered, her voice calmer than a breezeless night.

“Well, maybe I don’t want to speak to you,” The bard interjected before Yennefer could get so much as another syllable across. His words were sharp and spiteful, fear lacing everyone together. She knew that if he had it his way, she wouldn’t be able to say another word for the rest of the night. Yennefer needed him to work with her if she was going to work.

“I never said you had to speak. I just need you to listen.” Her voice echoed through his head again, and he attempted revolt against her use of magic, but before he could, he found his vocal chords were relaxed and unmoving. He shot her a face of pure and adulterated disgust, to which she just glazed over. “It’s not good for your voice anyway, in the state you’re in. Now, Listen, Jaskier.”

Her hand took his, a bit forcefully, but as her skin connected with his, an instant wave of relief washed over him, like he was never in any pain at all. As much as Jaskier wanted to yank his hand away and refuse her help, that brief moment of serenity was too good to not pass up. Yennefer unwrapped the wound and held it tenderly between her and Ciri as she began to point out tendons and fragments of bone that the sorceress began to pick out and place in her lap.

“None of this was Geralt’s idea,” She informed in between teachings. “After we discovered that nothing was happening, I decided to take matters into my own hands. Simple science dictates that to get the same reaction, we have to replicate what caused it. So we discussed doing this whole...Act. I came up with the idea, Geralt and Ciri just went along.”

Both of Yennefer’s hands held Ciri’s and she held them above and below the injury. Jaskier could feel it, his muscles and skin starting to grow and stitch themselves together once again. It was an odd feeling, but it didn’t hurt anymore. It just made his skin crawl and his toes curl, like an invisible string was being pulled taught through his arm. His mind still held onto his anger, though, Geralt’s betrayal still fresh in his bleeding heart. Jaskier desperately wanted to listen, wanted to trust those words, but he just couldn’t.

Yennefer saw his head turn to the side while she spoke of the plan, his eyes averting hers. She knew how he felt, and it was frustrating to have her words cast aside so easily. The idea of promises were so obscure, almost useless to her as far as she had come in her life. She found herself suddenly wanting to keep the one she made to Geralt. Yennefer weld with determination and her voice raised to catch the bard’s attention.

“For the love of the Gods, stop this! Please, I am on my knees begging, don’t do this to Geralt again!” Yennefer pleaded. Jaskier’s still wet eyes avoided her, but his head tilted just so to finally hear her. “He would never admit it. He would probably die of exhaustion if he spoke for more than a sentence at a time. But he missed you,” she admitted. “For five years, I noticed how often he came by to see me, far more than when he was with you. He always tried to play it off as needing help or research or a place to rest, but I knew he was just...so lonely.”

All three were silent, so quiet that they could hear the owls chattering outside. The bard’s cerulean eyes were finally caught by Yennefer and she held him in place for as long as she needed, the truth gushing from her jaw like a waterfall.

“Please don’t hate him again, Jaskier. I saw how he felt and I don’t think I can’t watch it again. This was my fault,” she said, her head dipping to look at the injury. “I betrayed you. I betrayed Geralt. He made me promise him I wouldn’t hurt you and I did. Hate me, more than you’ve ever hated anyone in the world, but for everything alive on this Earth and for Geralt’s own sanity, please don’t hate him for this. He just got you back, and it’s the first time in a long time I've seen him so...relieved.”

And just like that, with Yennefer’s words that pull him ever so taught, he snaps. For once, in all the years since Jaskier has known Yennefer’s distant and cold ways of speaking, he heard the warmth and concern in her voice. He would have, if she had said it any other way, told her to fuck off and he’d take her words as the spite or snark Jaskier had come to know. What stitched every last threat into place, what made him believe her, was how she brought up the thought of Geralt thinking Jaskier hated him. Yennefer spoke for Geralt in a way that The Witcher would never dare, and it finally set everything in place. 

She also admitted that she was wrong, and that certainly was something he would hold against her until the day either of them died.

Jaskier wanted to speak, wanted to say so many things, so many thoughts, so many concerns that he never knew he should have felt for Geralt in their time apart. But his vocal chords were still slack and unmoving, no matter how many times he opened his mouth. He just stopped and stared at Yennefer, his eyes red and running.

“I understand if you don’t want to work with me on whatever….This,” she motioned vaguely to his chest. “Is. I can live with not knowing. But I’ll still be here tomorrow. And so will Ciri, and so will he. Just let us know if you won’t.”

Jaskier’s eyes just fixed on the growing, scarred skin patching itself over the deep gash in his palm, his pain completely void from his body. He watched Yennefer guide Cirilla through the process, apparently her main problem being she missed healing some smaller bones, and all that time sitting there, one sentence kept recurring in his mind.

‘I never Hated Geralt.’

Geralt lost track of the time as he waited downstairs. He fell into the lull of listening for anything, anything at all, from upstairs. Though, all he could hear was faint murmurs of talking and one loud shout of pain that made The Witcher’s whole body flinch. As much as he wanted to rush up and grab and protect, Geralt stayed put and just waited for anything else to happen, waiting for an excuse to run up stairs and see the bard. But that moment never came, and after a short while, the whole house went silent. Geralt assumed that everyone had gone to rest since Yennefer never came back down to talk, nor did Ciri or Jaskier.

The only thing he had been doing to spend that time was spinning the dagger over and over in his hands, taking in every intricate detail of the blade. It was an old thing, Geralt not seeing it for years. It once belonged to him, used to travel in a pouch on Roaches hip, untouched because his swords were never that far from him. Geralt vividly remembered what made him separate with the small blade. 

Jaskier had gotten thrown into the frey with a monster that had almost torn the poor bard in two. Geralt had told the bard to hide along with the rest of the travelling party they had at the time, but that scheming crew of traitors hatched the plan to throw Jaskier to the wolves so that they could escape. Of course, Geralt wouldn’t let Jaskier die that day, but he certainly got roughed up enough for Geralt to put his foot down. Just so the bard could at least fend for himself in these times, The Witcher gave him the black hilted, steel dagger that was now coated in Yennefer’s now coagulated blood.

Geralt thought it over so many times as to why Jaskier still had it, and if Jaskier had even used it. It was almost as new as when Geralt gave it to him, aside from one scratch mark in the wood that he was confident wasn’t there before. It was...nice to know that Jaskier was always with something that Geralt knew could protect him from the worst of the world. It made him feel like in some way, Geralt was protecting him even a whole world away. He found himself cleaning the thing with a close by rag that was probably just for decoration.

He was getting sentimental now, which he took as a sign of pure exhaustion. As much as he dreaded hearing Yennefer’s nagging over him leaving his spot, it’s the first time in a long time Geralt has a bed to himself, and he was determined to take full advantage of it. However, he did promise himself he would wake up earlier than everyone. If Jaskier was going to leave tomorrow, which he expected he would, Geralt wanted to say goodbye to him; The proper way this time.

He stood from the chair he had planted himself in, put the dagger in his boot for safe keeping, and worked his way down the dark hallway to where he remembered the stairs were. Geralt felt so heavy, every burden from the day finally pressing down onto his shoulders in full force. Even so, he carried himself with all the stealth he could muster, not wanting to disturb anyone if they all had went to sleep. On the way down the hall, once he turned the corner, he saw the faint but still warm glow of a fireplace. He had only a vague tour of the house, but he knew that where the light originated from was the dining area. Whether it had been on all night or was just started, Geralt wasn’t sure, but since he was the only one down here, he thought it’d be best to put it out.

Once he made it to the archway, however, he couldn’t bring himself to take a step inside the room.

Sitting on a rickety wooden stool in front of the hearth, a blanket thrown over his shoulders, and his hand firmly wrapped in bandages, Jaskier was just...sitting there. From the way he hadn’t moved or spoken to Geralt, The Witcher moved stealthier than he had thought. 

He just...Stood there and watched over the bard for longer than he probably should have. Silently observing the injured lark from seemingly a mile away. Observed every small movement; each yawn, each cough, each movement of Jaskier’s thumb over the red cloth that swaddled his palm. Geralt wanted to say so many things. He wanted to apologize, he wanted to give reassurance, he wanted to ask Jaskier to stay with him even though he knew he didn’t have a smidgen of a chance. But first and foremost, he wanted Jaskier to be alright.

“You should be in bed. Resting,” Geralt finally said, taking a few steps into the chambers. When he spoke, Jaskier turned his head abruptly and he smiled at Geralt; It was small and weaker than usual, but it was the same smile Geralt was sure he didn’t deserve.

The spell had long since run its course and Jaskier spoke. His voice was rasped and broken, but not as bad as last time.

“I would be. But I found my head was just swarmed with thoughts and it was hard to get comfortable,” Jaskier stated, pulling the blanket around him tighter. “That, and Ciri, even though half my size, took up the whole bed. I am so sorry for your back, if that is a regular occurance.” The pair shared a small chuckle before Jaskier broke out into a small coughing fit. Geralt walked over and his hand reached over to pat Jaskier’s back, but he hesitated, unsure if Jaskier even wanted to be touched by him. The bard eventually settled his lungs, and Geralt just drew his hand back before Jaskier could see.

“What are you thinking of?” Geralt inquired, squatting down to meet Jaskier’s level. Jaskier’s hand massaged his throat and he cleared it quietly before he answered, and their eyes are locked with each other now. Geralt could see the faint red in the corners of his, but they were still smiling like he hadn’t been crying.

“Everything, I think. Who I am, what this,” he vaguely motioned to himself. “Thing inside me is, as Yennefer put it. She told me that since we have a base, we might be able to work with it. It’ll just take a lot of practice,” Jaskier hummed, his eyes flickering all over Geralt’s features. “It will be tough, but what’s a talent without a few callouses?” He joked, rubbing the tips of his fingers together. They were corse from decades of playing the lute. A small trophy in his eyes.

“So…” Geralt started, wanting Jaskier’s words to mean what he hoped they meant. “You’re going to stay?”

Jaskier just smiled, a slight smarmy look to his face. “What else am I going to do? I still have months till my old crew is back together, and now that I have this magical thing, I think it’d be best to get it handled before I’m let loose in society again. That, and I promised Ciri I’d teach her to play the lute, so now I really can’t leave without an earful about it.” Even though he joked it all, Geralt could still feel the sincerity in his words. It warmed his very heart to know that he didn’t have to say goodbye quite yet. His eyes looked at the floor and he fought the urge to smile. He couldn’t help the small bit that leaked out onto his lips.

As his eyes were lowered, he noticed though, how Jaskier was beginning to pick at the bandaged hand. His nails were trying to scratch at the wound under the wrappings. He knew magik wasn’t always perfect when it came to healing, but he knew it wasn’t supposed to be uncomfortable or itchy. His hand moved over to take Jaskier’s hand but he stopped.

“May I see?” Geralt requested, his voice gentle. Without a word, Jaskier shifted in his seat and gave Geralt his hand to examine. The Witcher’s hands started to unwrap the bindings ever so gently, like he was taking care of an injured bird. Geralt put the bandages around his own arm so that they wouldn’t be dirty, and he inspected Jaskier’s palm intently.

It wasn’t as bad as Geralt last saw, but it wasn’t completely healed either. It was still scabbing over, parts of the injury bleeding from being agitated from the bard’s insistent picking. His thumb brushed away some of the crimson, Jaskier’s fingers twitching from the contact. He deduced Ciri must have done the healing. Geralt didn’t have anything to actually help with the pain, but with a quick look around, he saw a pint of water and a rag that he could at least clean the area with. He retrieved it and got to work, dabbing the wet rag against Jaskier’s pale skin ever so gently. He felt Jaskier’s eyes bearing into him, intense with thought behind the stare. They sat in silence while Geralt tended to him, beginning to wrap it back up until Jaskier broke the air with words The Witcher had only dreamed of hearing.

“I forgive you. For everything,” Jaskier said so bluntly, like it was a given thing. Geralt could hear his heart starting to drum up into his ears. It was all he ever hoped to accomplish after he left the bard the way he did. His hands slowed, almost completely still, left in shock. He didn’t deserve it. Jaskier’s forgiveness was an oasis in the desert of guilt Geralt had exiled himself in for so long; and yet Geralt didn’t believe he had been out in it long enough. He picked up the pace and finished wrapping the bandage with nothing more than an appreciative ‘Hmm’.

Geralt pulled back from Jaskier and their eyes met again. That cerulean seemed to be brighter in the hearth’s glow. For a brief second, Geralt felt...calm. No worry, no anxiety; all pain scattered the moment he met Jaskier’s eyes the way he did. This had to be some sort of magikcal side effect from that night’s happenings because it was heavenly. He watched Jaskier’s lips turn up into a smile and it was heart melting. Geralt didn’t want anything in this world to hurt this human, ever. His hand moved, reaching for...no, he couldn’t. Not after tonight. Geralt’s head commanded his hand to move down, to his boot, where he pulled out the dagger. Jaskier’s eyes fluttered down and then back up, his cheeks flushing a tint of red, almost as if he was embarrassed. Jaskier leaned back just a little bit, but took the blade once Geralt offered it to him.

“You kept that old thing,” Geralt commented, standing up, offering to help Jaskier to his own feet. The bard accepted, being brought up to his feet and letting the blanket fall onto the stool. His thumb ran over the roughly cleaned metal and he smiled, like he was looking at a fond memory.

“Of course I did. It’s a good blade. Definitely got me out of a fair number of fights when my Rapier wasn’t around,” Jaskier stated nonchalantly. The Witcher had to do a double take for a moment, looking down at the bard with a look of bewilderment.

“You have a rapier?” Geralt questioned.

“Had. It was Thilen’s, I just borrowed it when we were out on our grand adventures. Very beautiful weapon, but I think I prefer the dagger,” Jaskier said, twirling it around with a bit of practiced finesse. “Nothing compares to the weapon of a Witcher.”

Geralt’s eyes rolled a bit. “One of these days, you need to tell me about some of those adventures,” The Witcher requested. Jaskier smiled at him and started to walk towards the arch way.

“Just say when,” Jaskier offered., a yawn trailing his words. "I'm not going anywhere." The bard left, going back to his room to rest, leaving Geralt with a smile on his face and a heart thrumming quicker than usual.

‘He’s not going anywhere’ Geralt reassured himself. With that last thought, he put out the fire with the remainder of the water, and retreated to his room. He fell into bed, his body still heavy and full of regret about what had happened, and still the force of undeserved forgiveness fell like a heavy book onto his brain. His mind left wanting to accept Jaskier’s words into his heart, taking them as the truth they probably were, but still, even falling limp and numb and being constricted by sleep, his body refused. Geralt pushed all those sweet thoughts out of his head and he sank into a deep meditation, deeper than usual. Though one idea shone through the have of self loathing and crippling guilt, faintly, but still there.

Jaskier was still here.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eyyo! So that angst, huh? We're all subjected to being inside for long periods of time now, so how about a chapter to help you guys out? I'll definitely work on next chapter to help cure the boredom of quarantine. Enjoy the lads!
> 
> No joke y'all. Please wash your hands, stay inside, stay protected, and stay informed and calm about COVID-19. It's a bitch, but we can all do our part to keep ourselves safe. 
> 
> Now please, offer a polite bow to our @Miscellaneous_Ace. She more than deserves it.


	9. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier still with the party, he and Yennefer get to work on finding out what it is that triggers Jaskier's magic. After many failed attempts and days of no sleep, they have a break from it all and our Bard spends the time reminiscing about his past.

The next few weeks seemed to soar past. Jaskier stayed with them, for many reasons, he said. To hone his magik craft with Yennefer was the main reason, though now she had to tell him about every experiment going forward. Others included “I don’t have anywhere to be” and “I promised Ciri I’d tell her my many stories” and so on and so forth came the excuses. He never really needed one, but he always seemed to keep making more.

Everything started to grow together, the days began to get slower and slower. The sun hanging in the sky for longer with each passing evening, it growing hotter in return. Rain came in and out almost like clockwork, nights and mornings filled with patters of rainfall while the rest of the day open to the field of sky. Summer was getting close, a rainy season to pass through first before spring was done with. But the time merely inched forward, for these past few weeks have been filled with failed training and fruitless experiments for Yennefer and Jaskier.

Weeks were spent in the study, days and nights smoothed into something similar as hours were poured over research, practice, and attempts to get Jaskier to control these mysterious powers. Yennefer took whatever she could from her own schooling; laying out flowers for Jaskier to wither or bloom, she gave him dozens of books that he worked over night after night until their spines were creased and worn, she even mixed together numerous low dosage potions to try and wake something in him. The farther they get along, the less they see Geralt and Ciri. Dinners are brought up to the study or completely abandoned some nights, breakfasts spent in complete silence. Yennefer became frustrated in a way Geralt had never seen before, and Jaskier was being worn so thin, his songs stopped entirely. They were as determined as two genius minds could be when trying to unlock an unopenable chest.

This was a particularly hard afternoon. The clouds overcast, the room silent as a tomb. Yennefer’s hand entangled with Jaskier’s, standing in the middle of the room, the furniture pushed back to give them a workable space. It’s a moment of reprieve for the two of them, just coming out of an attempt.

“Alright...Once more,” Yennefer said exhaustively. Dark circles had formed under her eyes. She can’t remember when she’s last slept. “Don’t think of anything. Clear your mind of every thought and let me just search,” She instructed. Jaskier’s eyes were just sunken in and bloodshot, the gleam all but gone from his cerulian irises. Yennefer can’t even Fathom the last time Jaskier slept. He held onto her hands tight and closed his eyes.

Jaskier did as instructed, without fault. He pushed every idea, every desire for sleep, every want for a break, every question about how long this’ll go on was purged from his head. It was uneasy, The Bard always thinking of anything and everything all at once. It was easier in this haze. A haze that was gently pushed into by Yennefer.

She had tried this more than once. It was an attempt to scour him for the source of this magik, looking for a source point or a morsel of something left over from anything he had encountered in the past. His mind was all turned about and rampaged through by exhaustion and burn out, but in a way, it brought new things to light. It shifted her perspective, and for a few seconds, she felt it. It was like an optical illusion, her eyes desperately trying to seek what it truly was but her mind just wouldn’t let her. Jaskier’s mind wouldn’t let her. It was there, somewhere in the dark fog that swirled and shifted her light in a strange way that felt like it was bending her view far off from her intended point. Yennefer was excavating through his very soul and Jaskier was letting her. Her hands tightened around his own, her nails almost starting to dig to find traction. Nothing made sense to her, it was all crumbling. The deeper she went, the further from an answer she got. No matter how far Yennefer pushed, it always seemed an arms length away. She dug harder, and further, grasping for it and gasping through the darkness that was now suffocating her.

She reached a point before Jaskier’s mind started to push back. She was vaulted back to the study, Jaskier pulling away in a frantic state. His hands rub his wrists and palms, deep red marks showing from under the rubbings. No blood was emerging, but she could see that she was in fact, pushing into a vein. If he wasn’t awake and aware, he surely was now.

“Sorry! I’m...I’m sorry,” Jaskier sputtered out, strain in his breath. His thumb kept rubbing against his wrist to soothe over the sharp pain. “I broke it, I should have held. Come on,” he put his hands back out, shaking the one that had been hurt. “Come on, let’s try again. I won’t push this time, I promise.” Jaskier was determined and frantic and tired. Maybe he’s awake, but Yennefer knew that he needed to rest, just a moment. She brought both hands up to her face and rubbed her eyes until they were blurry.

“No, Jaskier. I think...I think we need a break,” her hands fell and she could see how thankful his face was. His hands trembled, a part believing it was a joke or that they could try just one more time. Though, when Yennefer started to walk towards the door to the study, every muscle in him dropped a bit with gratitude. “Let’s take an hour or so. I need...I need a drink and I need to think,” she almost admitted guiltily. “I’ll bring up some lunch. You do whatever you need to relax. Just don’t go to sleep. I want to try one more time once we’re rested.”

The door was left open as the sorceress walked out, her steps slow and ever so quiet. For the first time in a ridiculously long time, Jaskier had some moments all to himself. There were so many ideas flowing through his head about what he could do with such valuable time. He walked over to the window, looking out into the sunny afternoon. Geralt and Ciri were below in the yard, the Witcher taking the time to train Ciri in the art of sword fighting. As far as Jaskier could say from this distance, she wasn’t doing half bad. It wasn’t outrages to presume that Geralt has been actively teaching her, but she still seemed new to it all. Thought the bard could pick up on similar foot stances and wrist motions that Jaskier has written ballads about in droves. He could go down and converse with them, but Jaskier was fully aware of how much Geralt hated being interrupted during his training. Still, it was hard not rushing down there to at least watch them; it’s felt like years since the pair have simply been near each other.

Jaskier instead, decided it’d be best to stay awake and move his joints a bit, began to wander out of the now cramped study and down the hall. It was always about 10 feet away at all times, but in the month or so that he’s been here, he can’t recall what it was ever filled with. As Yennefer had told him, the rooms down this way were just storage, herself not needing multiple studies or sitting areas most times. As Jaskier passed archway after archway, he saw that most of the furniture was either covered with tarps and sheets or pushed into corners to collect thick layers of dust. Every item was what Jaskier expected to find; large canvas paintings taken down from walls and their scenes dulling from dust, fancy sofas and chairs shielded by white sheets, and a whole collection of clothes belonging to a man twice Yennefer’s size stuffed in chests or thrown carelessly to the side of them. Jaskier had seen this scene plenty of times, passing through at least a dozen villas left to decay with time. At least this time he wasn’t running from something trying to eat him.

His feet carried him across the wooden floor boards for a few moments, his head lingering in rooms for mere seconds, his head hanging longer in some than others. Jaskier eventually got to the very end of the hall, the corridor opening into a larger room. It seemed to be lost to time long before Yennefer took up her post here. 

Cobwebs clung to stacks of chairs that were all pushed to the walls, the ornate floor completely dulled by dirt, and a chandelier whose candles have all but been left as nubs. There were miscellaneous things here and there, candelabras and their candles just neatly stacked where they could fit. It took Jaskier a good moment to reach the floor to ceiling curtains, stumbling in the dark and nearly avoiding breaking his own butt, but once his hand pulled back to heavy fabric and the room filled with daylight, he knew exactly was this room was.

A ballroom. A small one, and one that hasn’t witnessed a ball for the better part of the decade, but a ballroom it still is. And sitting in the center of this large chamber that echoed every tap of Jaskier’s boots, was a foreboding, large, flat thing, covered by a delicate but tattered sheet. The bard stood before it, his hand gripping the fabric and gently pulling the moth eaten fabric off. There sat, almost untouched by time, a piano. A Grand piano crafted from dark woods and decorated with beautiful carvings of flowers and vines that spiraled up the legs and along the sides of its build. He walked to the front of it, his hand just hovering over the fallboard. As a bard, he felt wrong touching it, like it didn’t deserve his oils or fingerprints littering the beautiful make of the instrument. Eventually, he did reveal the ivory keys and a smile came to his face.

“Gods I haven’t played since I was a child,” Jaskier half chuckled, his fingers walking across the white bars, creating a broken scale. It wasn’t too far out of tune, enough that it was serviceable, but his mind quivered of knowing what a beauty this could sound like when in proper hands. His fingers curled and he pressed down and a major chord echoed throughout the chamber and into his very weak soul.

“Gods, I haven’t played anything in...weeks,” it donned on Jaskier. He had been too busy to do so much as humming, his throat felt so crusty from disuse. His hands ached to move and create. His lute was only down the hall, in his room and perfectly tuned. This piano was a temptress however, and he couldn’t pull his hands from her body. There was a stool tucked just under the keys, and he did have about an hour to himself. He took a quick look over his shoulder before his foot pulled the stool out and he plopped himself onto its firm wood. Delicate fingers tinked their way across the board, looking for proper notes or memories on how to play. 

His head is taken back to those beautifully cruel hallways and dashingly redundant rooms of his childhood home. A sprawling estate built for a family of nobles was where Jaskier used to call home. Well, barely. Most of his childhood and adolescence, it felt more like a dolled up prison than a comfortable home. Sure, all his needs were met and taken care of, and he was given the greatest scholars as teachers, but only about monthly did he actually feel like his parents cared about him. This weight was never his alone to bear, however, his slightly older sister shared in his pain for many years.

It was just them. Them against the world of boring meetings, absolutely lonely summer days locked in the estate’s gates, and endless hours being left in only each other’s company. Some of that company spent in their ballroom, sitting at the grand piano and wasting time by playing. Jaskier used to sit by his sister’s side for hours, at first just listening to her practice her scales and charted pieces, enjoying listening in on her sessions with her instructors. After they left, however, it was she that used to guide him through the melodies. Unpracticed, unprofessional, and unapologetic melodies that he always put words to without fail. Countless nights spent at that piano, just playing to an empty room. Jaskier sat for a moment and smiled as he reminisced on those times in his childhood. As far as he was concerned, his sister was the only blood family he had.

For a moment, Jaskier could feel her hands on his, guiding him to proper spots and in familiar positions. He had so many stories that he wanted to tell her, wanted her to meet Geralt and Ciri, wanted her to see who he became once he escaped their shared jail cell. He’s already written words over the years, but he’s never put them in a letter. He never knew how he could end it, nor did he think that she would ever actually read it. Sitting here now, though, in an empty ballroom and a piano to himself, he felt for a moment maybe she could hear him. His finger’s pressed into the keys and his voice started to spill from his lips.

“Sister, Dear Sister,  
Do you remember the games we used to play?  
Out in the courtyard,  
In the days of early May.  
When we built castles, whole kingdoms,  
Palaces, built from dirt and clay.  
Oh sister do you remember,  
The times before I had to stray?”  
The melody came to him with ease, the notes being improvised but something deep within him leading him to each one. Everything about this song flowed through him as naturally as his own blood and he felt it. Deep within Jaskier, his chest and stomach grew warmer, as if he was basking in the light of the summer sun. A smile crept across his lips, his eyes fixing themselves on his fingers and their seemingly autonomous movements across the keyboard.

“Sister, Sweet Sister,  
Do you remember the winter balls,  
How we were fumbling and bounding,  
Dancing through father’s empty halls.  
Performing on marble stages for deaf ears,  
Our talents lost to them but you, my sister,  
Your songs do I still hear.  
My darling sister, my dear,  
Do you remember the times before now, when we were still near?”

Inspiration had struck the bard like an avalanche, himself swept up in the cascading words and notes and thoughts. The stress and anxiety from the past weeks are being shucked from his shoulders almost instantly as his voice began to rise in volume. Jaskier’s eyes closed and the material world seemed to melt away. He hadn’t lost himself in a song like this in a long time, and it felt like something was pushing him into this state; something strong and forceful, but he didn’t fight it.

___________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________ 

Yennefer laid out an array of snacks out on a silver platter; Breads, cheeses, whatever meats Geralt had hunted lately, and some tea. Her head was spinning, still reeling from the haze she had to push through in Jaskier. Humans were difficult to handle, especially in this case. Typically when Yennefer tried to push as far into someone's head as she has been doing, it drove those mad and paranoid beyond all reasonable doubt. It was invasive, of course, seeing into their deepest desires and secrets. It wasn’t something she did often, only under intense situations with certain people that she particularly despised. The fact that Jaskier was handling it with such an optimistic attitude was both impressive and almost sickening to see. Not that Jaskier had many secrets to begin with, so it wasn’t technically hard to delve into his head, though it truly showed that there was something keeping his sanity through all of it.

There was always something, though. A wall she’d hit once before and every so often grazed when she was in Jaskier’s head. She encountered it first when he was under the influence of that phobia potion. It was strong and well built, guarding something very raw and powerful. That glow, that spark of Magik wasn’t hiding behind it, but something else. Yennefer could get a glimpse behind it in the moment she had. It was raw and strong and heartbreaking. She saw it, she felt that so deep within her so long ago, that it was a slap in her face when she saw it again. Everything was so familiarly dark and it shook her to her own heart, her own mind.

Emotions were such a disastrous thing.

Yennefer picked up the tray and started to return to the study. Once she arrived at the study, however, she noticed Jaskier wasn’t around. Everything was left just as she left it, but it was just so...Empty. Silent, without Jaskier. She put the tray down on a table, and looked about in an attempt to find him. The whole floor was silent, in fact. Yennefer let out a groan and began to check bedrooms, couches, and even bathrooms to see if Jaskier had fallen asleep anywhere. Honestly, if he had, she doesn't think she could find it in her to actually wake him up. The man deserved some rest, and she honestly would like an afternoon to just breathe and do anything else that didn’t tax her. Hell, she would even consider a conversation with Geralt to be a break from this mess. 

She finally made her way down the last hallway, just off from the study. A long corridor that she just shoved everything she didn’t need into just to keep it out of sight. There were many people that lived in this house before she overtook it, and that meant there were many rooms and items she didn’t have an interest in keeping. But of course, she’d leave at some point and give the place back, so it would be rude to just throw all of the belongings out. So here it all rested; under tarps and tucked away where the sun couldn’t reach. Though, before she moved in, there was one room that had already been left to be claimed by the dust, at the end of the hall. It was some old ballroom, too small for really any use beyond an entertainment area. It wasn’t full of a lot so Yennefer just let the room be.

She’d already checked every other room on the floor, and she highly doubted that the bard went down to the cellar, and she didn’t pass him if he went outside. He had to be in there. As Yennefer got closer, however, she couldn’t hear anything coming from the ballroom. Light was coming from the room, though, so the curtain had to have been opened. For a second, she thought he wasn’t there, but it was still safer to check. And that second of thought was cut swiftly in twain when she approached just outside the door.

It was like a blast, a concussive wave smote her straight in the chest. She heard the music, a boisterous and glorious melody that just appeared out of thin air. Yennefer’s heart skipped a beat, startled by all of...this just manifesting from nowhere. So many questions started their squirming throughout her mind, but once again, all her thoughts and inquiries were cut short when she heard the singing.

“And now I’m wandering, running, and living like my life,  
Were a play.  
Erratic, and spastic and far from the silver cage,  
Where you stayed.  
My sister of fae.”

And then, Yennefer saw it. And she felt a smile stretch across her face. Her feet hadn’t carried her that quick in a very long time.

A repeated sound of hard and thick Shinks could be heard throughout the front yard. Heavy sounds of dull swords clacking together filled the air as Cirilla was deep in her afternoon practice with Geralt. At first, it was just practicing the movements and swings to get used to the tactics. But now the pair were currently in the throws of a light sparring session. Geralt was, of course, going slower for her so that she could actually learn, but he was impressed to find that this smaller girl had almost disarmed him once or twice with moves she hadn’t formally learned yet. After one particularly strong thrust that connected through a block, the sword’s tip to the witcher’s strong chest. Ciri’s blade was steady for a long moment, before Geralt gave her a nod and the pair separated from that position.

“Very good, Ciri. Very Good,” he complimented as they relaxed their stances. The girl was sweaty and worn, but excited. It had taken her a while to figure out how to come back from those blocks “You used your height to your advantage. A very important tool in your arsenal.” Geralt’s hand ruffled through her hair in a gentle but still playful way. The way she laughed was always warming, even to a cold, old Witcher’s heart like his.

“I’m not going to be short forever,” she quipped back, lightly punching Geralt in the side with her small, wrapped fist.

“That may be true,” Geralt started before he crouched to see her more eye to eye. “But you’re clever enough to work around it. I doubt you’ll have any issue once you get there.” His firm hand planted itself on her shoulder and he gave her the gentlest grin. Without hesitation, he was met with a similar smile from Ciri. Geralt was beyond proud of her, in more ways than just sword fighting. 

This moment was swiftly interrupted by Yennefer, who he could hear rushing towards the door from even inside the house. Without a second too late, the door came swinging open, and a frantic, smiling, and teary eyed Yennefer was panting in the doorway. Geralt stood, both him and Ciri just watching her with concern. She looked so tired, as she usually had these past few days. But the hitch in her heartbeat was what really made Geralt bothered.

“Geralt…” Yennefer called in almost a hushed voice in between breaths. “We...We did it…”

The words that they’ve all been waiting for so patiently finally were said. 

Ciri was already running inside, her blade falling into the grass without her there to hold it. They should be put back on the rack where they belonged, but Geralt himself let his sword fall to the ground so that they could both rush to see what exactly had been achieved. Yennefer led them, holding both persons' hands as they returned to the hallway where she had just arrived from. However, before they could take any steps closer, they were tugged and held into place by the sorceress for a moment. She steadied her breath and looked at both with a stern happiness.

“Now, when we go in there, don’t say anything. Don’t approach him. Just...Observe for a while with me,” she cautioned. This was more than enough to make Geralt worry about what was happening in the room. It was bad enough that he couldn’t hear anything, not even the Bard’s heartbeat. Even so, his hand firmly gripped around Yennefer’s and she guided them slowly over the threshold.

And just like before, they were struck with the pure and beautiful tune that filled every one of their senses. Geralt could hear it all now, Jaskier’s angelic voice, his steady heartbeat filled the role of a metronome, and the familiar sounds of music flooded his ears. Geralt missed Jaskier’s singing, quite honestly. It was one of the constants he had just gotten back into his life, so the time had felt dull without the songs. It was confusing, himself not understanding at all why he could hear it now and not two feet away, but he quickly assumed it had to do with the ‘It’ Jaskier and Yennefer had done. The music got louder as they finally approached the door, and Geralt couldn’t believe what he was looking at.

Jaskier was in the center of a less-than-grand ballroom, his hands waltzing across white and black keys in a gentle but quick way. His whole body was being moved by the song, swaying from unseen forces that controlled him. But that wasn’t what Geralt was gocking at, even if it was a beautiful sight. No, what Geralt was entranced by where the numerous items that were floating. Candelabras, chairs, even the chandelier seemed to hold itself with more confidence. The candles in the ornate piece had been lit with a bright and cozy glow that wasn’t fire. The curtains had all been pushed back and fluttered from a faint wind that was whipping through the room. It felt like they were at a banquet, everything just emanated a festive energy that Jaskier captured at every performance he gave. The air was just thick with Jaskier’s confidence and joy. Geralt just stood there, in awe of the bard he had known for so long. His hand tightened around Yennefer’s when Jaskier began his next verse.

“Sister, Dearest Sister,  
Do you remember the songs I used to sing?  
I’d belt them out until my lungs would start to sting.  
Sung to chords played by your hands until they bled,  
And you would take the punishment in my stead.

Anger, it could've been your tune.  
But the smiles and the songs, they always would resume  
Your hands, they would always find the keys.  
They are still my favorite memories.”

“Sister, Darling Sister,  
I remember when you broke through the cage.  
And you dreamed of a life beyond a marble stage  
And i thought i would only get to say goodbye,  
But you saw the fear in my eye,  
So your bag, your coin, your lute. You gave them to all me,  
And you said, “Just run, just go, Julien! Fly Free.”

Geralt wasn’t sure why, if it were the magik or the lyrics, but for the first time since he’s met the bard, this is the first time he felt Jaskier’s music. It all just flowed through him like it was supposed to be there, and his skin prickled when Jaskier played certain keys in just the right harmony with each other. Geralt’s ears were so invested in this moment that every second Jaskier wasn’t singing felt like an hour. His golden eyes trained onto every little movement Jaskier was making; his fingers that effortlessly glide across the piano, the tufts of his soft hair that are picked up by this mysterious gust, the gorgeous smile Geralt catches when Jaskier’s head turns just right. Jaskier was just so...Beautiful in this moment, in his moment. Extruding a familiar confidence that just made Geralt so elated to see. The Witcher could feel his heartbeat pick up and meet the pace of Jaskier’s, and everything else just seemed to fade into the background.

Ciri, however, caught onto something different. She was ecstatic to see all of this happening, but she observed closely, closer than Geralt or Yennefer, and she was sure that Jaskier had no idea what he was doing. Everytime his head turned just the right way, she saw that his eyes were shut tight, blind to this display he’s masterfully crafted. Ciri knew what Yennefer said, to stay back and just watch, but how could she just stand and watch when Jaskier couldn’t even watch? The sorceress seemed distracted as is by the whole show. Just before Jaskier began to sing again, Cirilla’s hand slipped away from Yennefer’s grip and she made her way closer, her own hair getting caught in the breeze that she couldn’t feel on her skin. 

Yennefer reached out once she saw that Ciri had escaped, but it was Geralt who pulled her back. Ciri wasn’t hurt, and as far as Geralt could feel, she wasn’t in any danger. The girl moved slower than the sky above so as to not startle the bard. Ciri smiled as her hand reached out and gently, ever so delicately, rested on Jaskier’s arm. The bard’s back straightened and tensed, his head turning quickly to actually see for the first time since he’s started playing. His eyes frantically looked around at everything around him for the first time and his smile only widened and his hands never faltered once while he was brought back to reality. His lips quivered for a moment, a heavy sense of relief and happiness made his very bones relax. Of course, a bard should always finish a song for his audience, and Ciri deserved a front row seat. He moved just to the side of the stool, and gave Cirilla a small nod, inviting her to sit next to him. She quickly hopped onto the cushioned seat and leaned forward to listen, her eyes meeting Jaskier’s lively eyes. They were sparkling with tears of joy.

“Amalie, oh my dearest sister, Amalie,  
You gave me a gift I can never pay back,  
You gave me a Witcher all dressed in black,  
You gave me a Witch whose snark doesn’t slack,  
You gave me a Princess who’s smiled would end you,  
At its slightest, smallest Crack.

“My sister, dear sister,  
Because of you, a proper family I have found,  
One as strong and tough and rugged as the ground.  
I’ve seen hundreds of the world’s greatest Sights,  
All because of one simple summer Night.  
I’m grateful for when you gave me your wings,  
The greatest gift among father’s meaningless things.  
Even though I’ve been warned of the tricks of their help,  
A new destiny for me, a fairy has surely dealt.

“So I’ll keep wandering, flying and writing like the games,  
We played.  
Joyful and hopeful, far away from the cage,  
You remain.  
Thank You, Amalie,  
My sister of Fae.”

Jaskier’s words trailed off into a gentle whisper, the notes following them like ducklings following their mother. Just as he finished, everything began to settle once again into their places. The curtains swayed back to covering the windows, the numerous items were softly set down onto their surfaces, and the glowing light that lit every candle faded off. Only the daylight from the first window spilled into the room, a natural spotlight that was trained onto where Jaskier was sitting. He was breathing heavily, his chest rising and falling, his mouth so dry from the singing. He began to turn towards the other two, but just as his leg swung around, Yennefer’s arms were flung around him tighter than she'd ever held him before. She was laughing, naturally and boisterously. Jaskier was silent, still thinking about what he had just done, but Yennefer’s words swooped in to fill the gaps in his memory.

“Jaskier! We Did,” she began, before cupping both of his cheeks with her hands. “No, Not we. This wasn’t us. This was You, Jaskier. You did it!” The tears began to fall after she said that, her own and light ones beginning to slide down Jaskier’s cheeks, rolling across the sorceress’ fingers. Before Jaskier knew it, he was tugged into a tight hug, Yennefer and Ciri both holding him tight. His shaky arms wrapped around the two of them, his wet eyes watching Geralt approach them. The Witcher wasn’t much of a hugger himself, but that gentle smile plastered on his lips was more than a consolation prize.

“We….We did it,” Jaskier’s voice squeaked out. It was hoarse, but it wasn’t completely shot like the times before. It simply felt like he had just gotten finished with a long performance. Geralt’s golden eyes locked with his, and his strong hand affirmatively grabbed at his bicep.

“No Jaskier,” Geralt said. “You did this.”

Yennefer said it before, and Jaskier had heard her say it, but the way Geralt said it...So firm and matter of fact, so gentle but full of pride. His words just made everything sink in fully, and he actually felt his legs shake. Jaskier sank into the embrace farther, his head tilting to the side to include Geralt in this moment. They all stayed like that for a few minutes, just breathing it all in. Eventually, Yennefer pulled back and wiped her own cheeks from the now running makeup that stained her skin. Ciri separated after, but Geralt’s hand never really left Jaskeir’s arm.  
“So...What now?” Jaskier asked. Just as Yennefer fully pulled away to answer, the bard could feel his legs tremble and his muscles were finally fed up with holding him up. Without her there as a crutch, he leaned forward and almost fell to the ground. Almost. Geralt grabbed him and became his new pillar of support, both of his arms pulled Jaskier into his chest. It wasn’t a hug, Jaskier knew better. It was more of a cradle.

“Well, Now, You rest,” Yennefer answered with a small giggle. “Gods know you more than deserve it.”

“And what of you? You should rest as well, this was a team effort,” Jaskier insisted. He knew she was just as tired as he, and she deserved more credit than she was giving herself.

“No, Please, Jaskier. I have more than enough work ahead of me, more research to spill over and further work to-” Yennefer started to ramble but Geralt swiftly cut her off.

“No, Yennefer. Jaskier is right. You both rest now,” the Witcher demanded. He saw Yennefer’s shoulder’s tense, her whole being wanted to protest this, but the bags under her eyes and the way that they wouldn’t even focus right was dragging her down below the surface of stubborness. Her hands raised and dropped a few times, her brain attempting to form a poor argument, but eventually they just dropped to her sides.

“You’re right,” she admitted, her pride completely pushed to the side. Ciri hugged her again, happy that she Yennefer was going to take care of herself. The older woman’s hand ran through the younger’s.

Geralt hoisted one of Jaskier’s up and around his shoulders, while his other arm gently held his side. The bard was still shaking, his muscles all but sore and ready to give out, but he still wore a sweet smile through it all. Yennefer and Ciri led the way out of the room, Geralt helping Jaskier along. The bard’s head fell to the firm chest of The Witcher, barely able to keep itself up straight. Geralt just kept him up and walking towards his bed room, so he didn’t push away when the bard practically melted into him. They were silent the whole walk, they were silent when Geralt helped the bard into bed, they were silent when they parted ways for the remainder of the day. Though, even throughout the rest of evening, Geralt could still feel Jaskier’s song, could still hear his words in his head.

Geralt would catch himself and scold his lips for smiling at those thoughts, but gods was it hard to actually control it. Everything he said had felt so...True, and Geralt’s head was grasping for every clue that none of Jaskier’s words meant anything. He didn’t deserve that trust. He lost count at how many times he caught himself grinning at those caring verses that had just ingrained themselves in all his senses. Gods…

Emotions could be such a disastrous thing. But everytime Geralt felt them, when they came to him, he didn’t mind them as much as he once had.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fucking CHRIST y'all. What a chapter. This shit....This shit right here is why I write. Just to suffer and love this story. Miscellaneous Ace and I wrote a whole ass gods be damned song for this chapter, no joke. I broke out the guitar and everything. And it's extra long for you guys because I know you all need to get away from this crazy life for a while. I hope you enjoy.
> 
> Also, I literally can't stress this enough, PLEASE go give love to @Miscellaneous_Ace, this bitch helped me write and SANG the fucking song, you guys don't understand how much I appreciate her. Help me show her.
> 
> ~~Ace Here, here's the song if anyone is interested in listening to it. Fair warning, it is very breathy and broken and it has bits of silence where the chapter misses the parts of the song, cause it's away from Jaskier so Obviously those parts don't exist. (We're not superhuman, come on now)  
> https://drive.google.com/file/d/1r5-9vWidtdVFPyt1PxuPYGVUv3HU-7hg/view?usp=sharing


	10. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A lovely afternoon is spent outside, and Geralt and Jaskier get to talk for the first time in weeks. After expositing the research he's poored over, and a favor of a story is fulfilled, the boys decide to have a good old fashioned sparring session. Things get heated, and Geralt comes to some conclusions.

The bright spring sun cast its rays across the entirety of the now overgrown lawn of the abode. Everything was starting to reach a full bloom, flowers and trees seeming brighter than merely a few weeks before. It was significantly warmer as the last few remnants of winter were already on their way out, and the only cold thing outside was the wind that blew through every few minutes. The breeze itself picked up the varieties of pollen and they somehow all ended up in Geralt’s nose. Witcher’s weren’t prone to such frivolous human things, like allergies, but it didn’t make the constant tingle in his nose any less annoying. Still, sitting in the grass and watching over Yennefer’s and Ciri’s magik lesson was infinitely better than being locked up inside.

It hadn’t been too long since Yennefer and Jaskier’s great discovery, and the two had still been working diligently to unearth the reason behind it. All the while, they practiced and worked towards Jaskier having complete control over these strange new powers. He was coming along, but this whole situation was still incredibly new, so it seemed to be slow going. That was fine, by Geralt’s standards. At least the two of them were sleeping and eating more than just one meal every day. The Witcher still had yet to actually sit in on one of these practices, since he and Cirilla typically trained at the same time, but now he could actually hear the bard’s singing echoing through the halls every once in a while.

“Very Good, Cirilla,” Yennefer praised. The younger girl was concentrating hard on many large rocks, them orbiting around her person in a steady and slow swirl. This was a test of endurance, it seemed. Yennefer was doing the same, hovering a similar amount of heavier rocks, but she didn’t need to have her eyes closed and her shoulders tensed up to do it. They’d been at it for a number of minutes, and Cirilla’s determination showed no signs of stopping.

Geralt smiled and his head tilted back to bask in the warmth of spring. It had been a long winter, longer than normal. This year, somehow, spring just felt warmer and everything seemed brighter. Even the darkest blacks and maroons of Yennefer’s dress seemed to be a brighter shade than usual. A relaxed ‘Hmm’ passed through his throat as everything just felt...Warm. Geralt’s head moved almost reflexively when he heard the door hinges creak, out of nasty habits. What he saw was nothing of a threat, however.

Jaskier had finally come out of the house to join the gathering. He was dressed far less vivatiously than usual, by any higher standards, the man was half naked. Jaskier’s doublet had been abandoned upstairs, along with his boots and any pretty pair of pantaloons he owned. The bard was stripped of anything that would give away his usual visage. He was left instead in a comfy looking pair of high waisted, dark brown pants, and a neat embroidered blouse that just barely clung to his lithe body, the strings on it not in the least bit tightened. The sleeves were rolled up just past his elbows, and occupying a hand was a cup of water Geralt assumed as water, and a dark blue, leather book as tucked under the same arm.

The moment Jaskier saw he was walking in on a training session, he quietly shut the door behind him and walked over to where Geralt had been seated in the grass. The Witcher wasn’t sure if he had been staring, but Jaskier was really the only new thing in the area to watch. From the way the bard smiled and made eye contact before sitting cross legged right beside him, Geralt knew he didn’t mind or didn’t notice.

“Good morning, Jaskier,” Geralt greeted, his voice the same low tone it normally is.

“Good Morning, Geralt,” Jaskier greeted back as he placed the cup to his side and the book in his lap. After their acknowledgement of each other, Jaskier’s eyes landed on Ciri’s work. Geralt’s eyes went back to them, but Jaskier was new, and his eyes just kept falling to him. He smelt of Dandelions and old dew, with that same musk of old books hanging on him. Geralt couldn’t think of a more ‘Jaskier’ scent than that.

“Have you been busy this morning? I expected you to be out here before me,” Geralt inquired, in an attempt to make small talk. They once again made eye contact, and Geralt could finally see the dark circles that were under his eyes have faded, and his usual color had come back to his cheeks. The small chuckle that escaped Jaskier’s mouth was so...Comfy to witness.

“I have, actually,” Jaskier said. His hand picked up the book and moved it over to Geralt. The Witcher took it and looked it over. It was old, sure, but was still immaculately well kept. His fingers started flipping through a few pages, not really reading. Only a few pages had signs of wear in them. “Yennefer had me look through her library for a book she wanted to use during practice today. Took me forever to find, I practically had to rearrange the whole shelf looking for the damn thing. Luckily for her, I worked in the Common library in Oxenfurt for a few winters.”

Geralt gave out a huff, never quite a laugh, but Jaskier had come to aquante it to one over the years. “She is not going to be happy, Jaskier,” Geralt said through a playful smile. He handed the bard the book back, who now waved it dramatically to emphasize his words. 

“Oh hell, you’re right. Poor Yennefer, I just completely organized the shelves by author, subject, and year, basically making it the most convenient sorting of books this side of the continent. How will one of the smartest Witches of the millenia dare live with this sort of treatment,” Jaskier lamented in his most exaggerated tone. His voice never raised in volume too much, however, watching himself as to not disturb the Witch in question. Geralt rolled his eyes and Jaskier chuckled again. “I think she’ll live.” The book was placed back in his lap and he leaned back, his arms propped behind him like tent poles. Jaskier’s head once again trained on the two girls, but still gave Geralt as much attention as he could while multitasking.

“How have the two of you been? I haven’t heard any amount of this research the pair of you have been so occupied with,” The Witcher commented. He saw Jaskier perk up at the question, almost as if he was ready to answer at the drop of a hat.

“We’ve been doing well. We actually have a theory conjured up about all of this,” Jaskier said. His body turned to face Geralt entirely, and Geralt shifted to get comfortable. He rested now mostly on his side, and his arm was the only thing keeping him from laying down. Geralt had to look up to Jaskier, which he didn’t mind. The bard was good shade from the light anyway.

“It might all come back to that Djinny-djinn-djinn we dealt with so long ago.” Jaskier saw the look on Geralt’s face sour. It always made the air awkward, that story. “Oh, don’t give me that sad sap face. I’ve forgiven you a hundred times before, and I’ll do it again.” That tinge of guilt hadn’t quite left the Witcher’s gruff face, but Jaskier had captured those molten golden eyes once again.

“We’ve been looking around at tales of magik in humans. It’s not as much as a rarity as it is more...Situational. They all followed some of the same tales, people pissing off important figures and being cursed or just encountering and interacting with things outside this realm; Demons, Gods, Fae, really any of them,” Jaskier starts to ramble off. “Which, Naturally, made us suspicious about things I’ve faced with you. Outside of the mere monsters and beasts I’ve seen when I was with you, we were brought back to the Djinn. After recounting that wonderful first meeting me and Yennefer had, we found deep within a book of fairy tales, a story of something familiar.”

Jaskier was making this whole thing sound interesting. He was trying to be as enthralling as he possibly could, but he could still see the dreaded look of ‘Get On With It’ sitting deep in Geralt’s eyes. That look was being pushed down, Jaskier could tell, but none-the-less it was present.

“The gist I’m getting at, you impatient prick, was that in the story, a person was injured in their right arm by magical means but lived and healed after it. As a result, they gained almost incredible arcane strength, being able to lift things no man could before.” Geralt sat up a bit, that impatient look replaced with one of Inquiry. “Yennefer came up with this. Since the Djinn so rudely attacked my vocal chords with magik, and then I was healed by magik, it may have made some sort of...Scar, some imprint on my voice. And, my dear Witcher, what is music other than pure organized chaos?”

Jaskier beamed with a sense of self imposed pride. He was smart, smarter than he’d ever let Geralt know, but the bard was always the one who assisted him in his research endeavors when certain monsters were eluding Geralt’s many years of work. The Witcher couldn’t count how many times he’d have been lost while on a hunt without any of the books Jaskier was so talented at digging up. It was only a week or so after they found out that Music was the bard’s way of casting spells, and he already formed a theory as to why. It still left one question, thinking back to the many years after the Djinn fight.

“Then Why now? You’ve been singing for decades. Why is this all happening now?” Geralt asked. He moved to meet Jaskier’s height, though he still sat a few inches below him. It was a strange change of roles.

Jaskier’s cheeks grew darker at the question, and his bottom lip retreated to between his teeth. His heart race hitched a moment but he still held an air of intelligence behind him. “Well, once again, this is Yennefer’s theory. She has more experience so I’ll take her word.” Jaskier’s hand ran across the back of his own neck to soothe himself.

“When we were in the woods, dealing with those...Monsters, the ones that almost drowned Cirilla. I was, quite frankly, terrified. I’ve never seen you disarmed and in trouble like that before, and it made me sick with worry. You, a grand Witcher, brought to your knees by waterlogged Horses, of all things. It’s actually given me the idea-,” Jaskier started to ramble, but in a way that avoided the question. Geralt saw this before, whenever the bard wanted to get out of trouble, he’d just talk the ears off whoever was accusing him. It was endearing, but Geralt needed to know.

“Jaskier.” That’s all it took for the bard to shut up, that same, low, bellowing voice that rumbled in Geralt’s chest like a private storm. It wasn’t cruel. It never was.

Jaskier let out a deep sigh and got back on track.

“Yennefer said that sometimes it takes...an emotional shock to get things going. It’s why we tried that fear serum a while back. And…” Jaskier paused a long moment. When the bard is silent is when Geralt really starts to worry. His hands shot up to calm the old man down. “Don’t think that I still think this now, please. I was scared and worried and I felt like I was weighing the whole world on my shoulders at that moment, so just trust from where I’m coming from when I say what happened.”

Geralt sat up fully, giving Jaskier all his attention. His brow was furrowed and he wasn’t sure if he was ready for Jaskier’s follow up.

“In that fight, I thought…’what is a bard’s life compared to a Witcher’s?’ In a moment of pure...dread, I just knew I wanted you and Ciri to be the ones to get out alive. You have so much to be alive for, now. The world needs you two. So I did the only thing I knew how to do…” Jaskier sollumly said. Geralt could sense the hurt in his voice, but it was hollow. “I sang. Well, Belted, and you will never tell any of my rivals that I belted.” The humor returned to him, but it still just sat all heavy in Geralt’s chest. Because of him, Jaskier risked his short and beautiful life for his seemingly endless and disgusting one. That wasn’t fair, not to someone like the bard, who’s life was far richer than Geralt’s would ever be. He was foolish, saving someone that he couldn’t possibly like…

Geralt’s eyes glanced over to the blonde haired girl, who was now making even larger rocks float around her. He saw her smile, gentle and sweet. If it hadn’t been for Jaskier, that young girl, whom he vowed to protect since that dreadful banquet, would be dead. The bard wouldn’t have had to if Geralt had been stronger and smarter, but he was grateful that Jaskier at least saved her.  
“Thank you,” Geralt stated, looking up at Jaskier. “As repayment, I’ll not tell another soul you...Belted.” He had no clue what that actually meant, but he meant it. Keeping a small secret like that was simple, and seeing as how determined Jaskier was for Geralt to actually keep it, it was barely a price to pay for Ciri’s safety. Jaskier seemed pleased with it, and they both left it at that.

They sat in silence and just watched for a long while; Watched Ciri and Yennefer, watched Roach graze near the forrests edge, watched each other for moments. Silence wasn’t Jaskier’s usual, and Geralt could feel it from where he was sitting. And even though Geralt was impressed by everything Ciri was doing, he wasn’t a part of the training so it felt...slow to watch. So, to ease both their problems, Geralt redeemed that promise Jaskier made to him.

“Why not tell me one of your tales? You said all I needed to do was ask, so...I’m asking,” Geralt said. He could physically feel Jaskier’s eyes widen and glitter with that intensity he’s seen a thousand times before. The Witcher looked over and watched Jaskier shift his body, his legs now tucked under himself, giving him a boost in height. He had the largest grin on his face.

“Well, my dear friend, What would you like to hear about? I have tales of our voyages in the midst of thrashing storms, the time we watched an enemy ship get taken down by a kraken, we encountered Sirens on Multiple occasions.” Jaskier began to list off any and all of his harrowing tales from his dangerous pirateering days. They all sounded impressive, though some Geralt could poke holes through very easily, but none of which really struck a chord with The Witcher. He’d probably hear them all at some point or another, but there was one story Geralt desperately wanted to hear.

“Your song. About your sister,” Geralt cut Jaskier off. “You never talk much about your family, and I only vaguely remember you having one. What of her?” The entirety of Jaskier just changed, his once heroic and boisterous look replaced by one that felt softer. The bard made it a habit of either never talking about his home life, or described it as a prison. Geralt was well aware of how...Untasteful Jaskier’s father could be, but he didn’t want to hear about that. He wanted to hear about the woman Jaskier sang so fondly about.

Jaskier moved again, but this time to a much more relaxed position. He flopped down onto his back, his head using his arm as a makeshift pillow. Geralt had to once again look down at him. He watched his face contort and change, but never leaving that comfortable mood. The bard let out a light sigh before he started speaking again.

“I never talk about her because I don’t want you associating her with any other parts of my family,” Jaskier answered. “I’m aware of how many times I’ve relayed my hatred for my father to you, and I didn’t want to tarnish her status with the Name of Pancratz.” He spoke the name with such a hiss in his voice, as if it were the cruelest slur in the world. “Amalie was wonderful, really. The only person that kept me sane in my upbringing. She was older, only by a year, but being a woman, what does that ever get you in court? She was clever, could persuade a crowd to believe the sky was red, and had an anger that sometimes I thought could rival Yours,” Jaskier said with a sentimental laugh, his hand vaguely gesturing to The Witcher. 

“Things could have turned out so...Bad between us. I always knew how prepared she was, how she wanted to take Father’s place. She could have done it, too, and been thrice the Viscount he was. But it was always me attending those political dinners and making a fool of myself in front of his trade partners. You were called a sad silk trader once, but by the Gods, you seemed like the first ray of summer’s sun compared to the assholes I had to get acquainted with.” 

Geralt had to laugh at that one. Jaskier shared one with him. It was soft and low and just between the two of them.

“We found comfort in each other. I told her about all the shitty business men and ventures my father dragged me upon and she, in return, made life at home a little less unbearable. We played together when our parents were too busy to remember we existed, getting lost in Orchards or stealing the whole courtyard for entire afternoons to use for our leisure. It was mostly just us keeping each other company. It was actually only us, because after me, Father didn’t want to even risk Not having another heir.” Every word was spoken with a thick layer of fondness. It was obvious he missed her.

“It was she who taught me most of what I know about music, actually,” Jaskier began once more. “She had everyone of the finest tutors for the piano and lute. They taught her all the classics. Of course, when Amalie taught me, she threw out all the bullshit and only showed me what’s needed. And when I learned how to play her lute, it was all over me,” Jaskier chortled. “I was already in love with the idea of running away, but playing music finally betrothed me to it.”

Somewhere in the hypnotic tones of Jaskier’s voice, Geralt had spread out in the grass as well, just lost in the serenity of it all. Before, he’d only heard half this story, always lacking Amalie but never losing a sense of spite. Even now, he could hear it in the other’s voice. Once he brought up the idea of himself running away…

“It wasn’t easy,” Geralt replied to him, filling in the gaps himself. The bard just nodded towards him and closed his eyes for a long moment.

“Like hell it was,” Jaskier reassured. “I even brought up the thought of going out on my own and…” The way his voice tightened and his fist clenched made Geralt remember why he would maime his father on sight.

“But Amalie...She had every chance. Tutors offering positions at Oxenfurt and performing for only the most esteemed royal families. There were days where she left for town and Father either didn’t notice or didn’t care. She could have just had the world and left me for the hounds,” Jaskier said, his voice choking up a bit. “And she gave the world to me. Just, one night, she gave me a bag of things, some coin, her old lute, and sent me on my way. I never knew what became of her, and a part of me dreads to know the answer but...From what I hear, Lettenhove is doing much better.”

Geralt was completely distracted and unaware of his staring. That was, until Jaskier turned his head and they locked eyes for a long while. Neither were really sure as to why they just looked at each other for so long, but the contact seemed so comfortable. The moment carried for who knows how long before Yennefer’s voice severed it for the two.

“Jaskier! Did you find that book?” She called from across the way. At that question, Jaskier’s cheek blushed, he averted his gaze, and hoisted himself up to respond. Geralt’s eyes scrunched up and his head turned, puzzled as to how and why he let himself lose track of himself like that. Geralt sat up as well, and saw that the two girls were facing them, as if they’d been waiting. Now that he thought about it, he wasn’t sure when he heard them last.

Jaskier held the item in question up as Yennefer began to approach. “I Did! And Might I say, as a lover of literature, your organization was really impressive. Truly,” Jaskier responded. Either Geralt hadn’t heard his sarcastic tone in a very long time, or Jaskier was a better actor than he was aware of, because Yennefer seemed genuinely appreciative of the compliment. The Witcher had to snuff the snort that almost passed his teeth. The older woman took the book and began to finger through the pages.

“Did you practice what I showed you this morning?” Yennefer asked offhandedly towards the bard.

“I didn’t. I was lost in the throws of your book collection, I just lost track of time,” Jaskier admitted, the thick presence of sarcasm now back in place. Her violet eyes rolled before looking back at Ciri, then at the book, before they landed on Geralt. An almost sinister grimace crawled across her perfect lips.

“Why don’t you show Geralt what I’ve taught you? It’ll take me a moment to find what I’m looking for and Ciri needs a break. You two have the field to do whatever you want,” She offered. The younger girl that was mentioned walked on over. Her face almost lit up at the idea of Jaskier showing off what he’s learned to Geralt. 

Jaskier pulled himself to his feet entirely and brushed off the grass that had clung to him. “Oh, I’m not sure. I don’t wanna subject the poor old man to anything I’ve learned, he couldn’t keep up” Jaskier taunted. It wasn’t even subtle. Geralt wouldn’t stand for this mockery.

“I’ve been at this far longer than you have, Bard. Are you sure that you even want to claim that?” Geralt taunted back. He stood and loomed over the other. Jaskier wasn’t one to back down, so he crossed his arms and raised a brow at the menacing figure dead in those glinting eyes. They both knew that there was no real poison behind Jaskier’s biting words, but if it was a spar that the bard wanted, who was Geralt to say No? They’d done it before, long ago after Jaskier was given his dagger. And if History is doomed to repeat itself, The Witcher couldn’t help the tinge of confidence that sprang into his chest.

“Is that a challenge, Geralt?” Jaskier basically cooed. His arms crossed over his now puffed out chest.

“I’m not the one who posed it,” Geralt almost growled. 

Yennefer just groaned at the whole display, loud enough to snap the two men out of their stare down. However, the mens’ attitude didn’t falter from the exasperated protest from the witch. It just made Jaskier chortle, and he put a hand on Geralt’s shoulder as he started to move past him.

“I’ll get my boots and my dagger,” he said with a smile. “No armor. Wouldn’t want to shame you further.” It was a joke, Geralt knew it. Jaskier had made it time and time again after he got fed up with losing to the Witcher, and waking up with giant welts while Geralt’s skin was spotless. Armor or no, it never changed the fact that Geralt had him on the ground in less than three minutes, but it was the least he could do to comfort Jaskier in losing. Shared bruises became the mark of a good afternoon spent to the pair. The bard’s hand left his shoulder and Geralt watched Jaskier travel back inside to gather his things. He didn’t have a need to rush to have a blade, as they were only a few feet away. So he waited.

“Go easy on him,” Yennefer began. She was still reading through endless pages, her eyes never meeting his, but all of her words were directed at him. “Since he is still human. At least we think. Time will have to reveal that secret,” Yennefer trailed off for a moment before righting herself. “Jaskier has gotten either strong or overly confident. Probably both, knowing the bastard. That doesn’t change the fact that you’re still you.”

Their eyes locked, and once again, Yennefer’s lips didn’t move, but her voice echoed in Geralt’s skull.

“Play nice. Ciri is watching,” she teased so thickly it hurts. Geralt rolled his eyes and didn’t bother to look in the Witch’s eyes. How dare she even insinuate such a thing…

Jaskier came back outside and Geralt’s eyes just ‘happened’ to be where he stood. The bard was still in his loose pants and shirt, but they seemed to be tucked and tied more to fit his form. A dark leather belt formed to his waist and a short sheath was dangling from his hip where a familiar hilt poked out of. With his knee high boots on his feet, and a smile that Geralt could swear was all for him. The bard approached but passed the Witcher, and went straight to the designated training area. Geralt felt Yennefer’s elbow in his side, which knocked him out of this strange trance he’s found himself in all afternoon. His damned senses, being flooded with this new season.  
“Well, Are you coming?” Jaskier asked. He drew his dagger out with a practiced flick of his delicate wrist, the weapon now in a readied position. Geralt swiftly grabbed his sword from its place in the grass, and found himself walking faster than normal to the opposing side. Yennefer and Cirilla sat in the yard, the older woman putting the book down to watch the spectacle.

Both men prepared their stances, Geralt assumed a wider stance to help swing the weight of his sword and Jaskier a more poised and delicate stance, his dagger loosely in his grip. It would seem unfair to anyone else but the two of them. Though Geralt wasn’t one for a more intricate and light-on-one's-feet fighting style, he taught the bard all he knew when dueling with light weight weapons. It fit more for Jaskier’s travelling life as well as his physical frame. But Geralt became incredibly curious when Jaskier brought up that he had worked with Rapiers...Well. Geralt couldn’t come up with a more fitting emotion than Eager.

“Have the rules changed any since I’ve been gone?” Jaskier asked.

“Same as always,” Geralt reassured. “First one disarmed and pinned loses.”

“Well then. Lead on. First move goes to you,” Jaskier allowed.

“Not this time,” Geralt offered. “You’ve been talking yourself up all this time. I’ll give you first-”

A ploy, Jaskier’s politeness must have been. Not even a second into the sentence, the bard rushed forward and took a deep swing of his dagger straight into Geralt’s space. His heavy steel blade catches the small weapon, leaving Jaskier too close in the Witcher’s vicinity. Jaskier was swift and sure, but Geralt wasn’t going to give him the fight that easily. He did, however, give the bard a little nod of recognition. Jaskier returned it with a grin just before Geralt’s foot came up to kick the bard square in the stomach. It sent Jaskier back a few feet, but didn’t know him onto the ground. He instead, slid back and kept his balance. His hand twirled the blade once and prepared for the next move.

Geralt followed through next, readjusting his blade and moving quickly with a low sweeping motion that would knock any foe flat on their arse. His whole body moved with the flow of the hefty metal, but Jaskier’s body moved to compensate. He tucked his body in and vaulted over the attack all together, rolling and landing with something close to grace. But he was lower, eye level with Geralt’s waist, and not too far out of reach. The dodge was easy to compensate. Geralt veered the swing up and around, turning on his heels to bring the weight down upon the bard. His eyes watched Jaskier, and for a second he was worried about actually hurting him. The bard’s arms didn’t move to block or dodge and as the metal inched closer, Geralt attempted to slow the swing. Jaskier’s head simply lifted and a new glint in his eye splashed in his ocean blue eyes.

Just as the sword was about to connect with Jaskier’s clavicle, a long and drawn out note emitted from the bard’s chest. A harmonious chord that rang throughout Geralt’s head, his hands trembling as it started to vibrate the very steel of the blade.

The blade that now sat in place in the air, at an awkward angle that made it very strange to hold. It was stuck, like it had slammed into a log of heavy wood, and no matter how much the Witcher tugged and pulled, it was held as solid as Jaskier held his voice. Cheering could be heard, Yennefer off behind them clapping and shouting praises as Jaskier slowly stood to his feet. Not once did his note break as he raised to finally meet Geralt’s eye level. It seemed Jaskier had moved past words, and simple notes and scales were enough to work with. Geralt noted that down in the back of his head.

Once the bard was standing up right again, his melodious voice cut off. And all at once, Geralt’s sword nearly fell to the ground, all momentum from the swing, voided. He brought it back up to a more controlled stance, his face falling to one of pride and bewilderment. Jaskier just gave him a small shrug and grin before returning the kick to the stomach Geralt had gifted him. Geralt caught Jaskier’s leg, however, and tossed the bard backwards with ease. He fumbled, but found stance once again. If this was the game they were to be playing, Geralt steadied his nerves for the coming fight. His once held confidence subsided, for uncertainty took its place.

Jaskier had grown as a fighter since Geralt had last seen. The man went from simple stabs and smashing pints of ale over the backs of aggressive bar patrons head’s. No, Jaskier had been taught far more intricate and flashy moves. Catching Geralt’s thrusts under his arm and twisting his body into something uncomfortable, tossing his blade in the air and elbowing the Witcher’s gut before catching the dagger, Gods, Geralt even pulling out his Igni to match the gusts Jaskier would use as defense to slam the other back. Some of the moves seemed familiar (Geralt supposed he hadn’t seen the last of Captain Thilen) but none of them were taught by Him.

But then Jaskier slipped in mud, or got cocky, or Hell, Geralt just got lucky, because now he had the footing to actually win this fight. It was a sneaky maneuver that Eskel used on him more than once to get the upper hand, but Geralt needed to pull out something Jaskier hadn’t seen before. With a misleading side step that caused Jaskier to open up his side, Geralt’s foot found place in the back of his knee, and the bard toppled onto his back. Without so much as a moment to breath, Geralt brought his body down onto him, straddling his waist like he was Roach. His brings his sword down, and the dagger and Jaskier’s other hand are barely able to push back. Geralt can see the sweat on his brow, the red in his cheeks, and could feel the way his chest heaved under his weight. Just a moment ago, Jaskier’s singing was rougher and his notes were shorter. Geralt was close.

He was pinned...Just needed to be disarmed.

Geralt pushed hard, his arms shaking as he met the recoil from Jaskier. He could feel the bard’s legs come up behind him, but Geralt wasn’t about to let himself be pushed off so easily. They were locked, panting and just trying to hold out longer than the other. It was...Difficult. The way Jaskier’s eyes seemingly bore through Geralt’s very soul wasn’t helping, and neither was that smirk etching its way into one of the bard’s cheeks. Geralt felt his own cheeks start to flush, but from exhaustion or something else he couldn’t discern. He just wanted...He needed…

Before the Witcher could even figure out what he wanted, he felt the recoil slack, and before he was aware, Geralt could feel his blade being pulled forward. It pushed flat into Jaskier’s chest, just under his lightly bobbing Adam’s apple. Geralt stopped pushing once he was close enough to feel the other’s hot breath on his face and that old book tainted musk flooded his nose. Jaskier’s legs pushed against him, and again, he wouldn’t budge, but the Witcher was deftly aware of the closeness of it all. He’d be arrested for treason in his own head if he said he wasn’t impressed and attracted to the way Jaskier had been fighting. The bards lips parted just so, his low voice spilling fourth and encompassing all Geralt was.

“Oh Beast Hunter, Oh Beast Hunter,” he sang in a lower octave, the tune of that stupid fishmonger song. Geralt felt himself be tugged ever so closer to Jaskier’s face. “Come quell your dear bard’s~...”

And then it struck him. Literally, struck him. His side was slammed with a force that he couldn’t have seen coming in any way. Jaskier’s hand grabbed the hilt of the long sword, and his knee caught him just as he lost his balance before he was tossed and slammed on his back. Now Jaskier was atop him, almost kneeling with a foot on his chest. The awkward turn made it impossible for Geralt to keep hold of his weapon and now it lay in the other’s off hand. He was disarmed. He was Pinned. He had lost. For the first time in a very long time, Geralt lost a sparring match. He lost to a Bard half his girth, no less. He watched the very pleased expression of Jaskier’s face move closer, and he finished the damn lyric.

“Hunger~.” The world was coated in teasing and triumph. The bard burst into a chuckle and raised the sword above his head as a sign of a well earned victory. Yennefer and Cirilla’s cheers could be heard, and Jaskier removed himself from the Witcher a bit gingerly, holding his side as he approached the two girls.

Geralt, though, lay prone in the dirt. That closeness...It was a trap. A well placed one, one that Geralt thought was sincere, but of course it wasn’t. Just another move in his arsenal. Just a move that brought the Witcher, A Beast Slaying Revered, Witcher to his knees. What a piss poor fight. Geralt cursed himself, scolded everything in his core for letting himself fall to his own emotions. There was a reason he was told to never give into them. They made a Witcher weak, and this was a prime example of it. He pushed himself up halfway, his head a country away when he’s greeted with a hand that once held his blade.

Jaskier dared to stand there with a sweet smile on his face and a hand offered to help him up. Geralt didn’t take it and pulled himself up to his feet because at the very least he was strong enough to pick himself up. Jaskier backed up a bit, and offered the sword as a peace offering.

“Like I said, not my type of weapon. But I will always admit, you wield it with a grace I wish I had,” he complimented. Geralt just took the blade back and forced a nod in his direction. God, Jaskier was almost a convincing liar. He was met with a pout that made Geralt curse himself again, and he forced his face to form a simple thankful expression. He didn’t need to ruin Jaskier’s mood as well.

“Thank you. And You’ve learned more. It’s impressive,” Geralt admitted. It was the most he’s ever complimented on Jaskier’s fighting, and he lit up at the simple words. That’s better, Geralt thought. He deserved more, but at the moment, Geralt found it difficult to even speak.

Yennefer eventually approached them, Ciri rushing before her to hug Geralt’s waist. It pulled him from himself and his hand landed onto her back. He looked at her face, seeing so much excitement and pride in her eyes. He hadn’t earned it, but seeing her happy help ground him in the present. The Witch held the book under her arm and was clapping her delicate hands.

“Well Well. Jaskier, you did wonderful. Your practice has come a long way and I think it shows.” The other adults share a light laugh, Geralt just barely a part of it. Her hand landed on the bard’s shoulder and she tousled him about to his own dismay. He groaned as he was rocked, a hand clutching to his side. Her face turned a look of slight concern but his smile eased her.

“I think you’ve earned the right to rest for the day,” she said.

“That is a prize I will Cherish till the end of my days,” Jaskier responds. They disconnect from each other and Cirilla attempts to help Jaskier back to the house, promising to return for the remainder of her training. He wasn’t injured seriously, but his muscles were sore and something in his side certainly felt out of place. The bard gave them both a small wave before he disappeared inside.

“I knew he could hold his own in a fight, but that was something special,” Yennefer said. Her tone was jovial, but that just covered her mocking, Geralt thought. “I’m proud of the both of you. It’s been a while since I’ve seen you fight so valiantly. Where did you learn the knee-thing, I might use it.”

“Just thought of it,” Geralt spoke half heartedly. He once again faded far from reality and sank deeper into the muck of his own head. She reached out for him, but he moved before she even graced his shoulder.  
Cirilla came out of the house again, and Yennefer held the book and opened it to a folded page. Geralt’s eyes were caught by hers for a moment and she looked concerned. He faked a smile which seemed to be enough for her. She took Cirilla back out into the training area to resume their practice. Geralt walked back over to the grass where he once rested with Jaskier, his scent still faintly there. He let the sword fall into the grass and he followed. His eyes may have fallen to the two girls and their training, he couldn’t for the life of him recall what they did. Geralt was too far gone in himself to even keep track of time.

Geralt was impressed, of course. Proud, most definitely. Attracted to, by the Gods, Yes, Jaskier riled Geralt up more in that fight more than anything any whore (or even Yennefer) had ever done. But what kind of Witcher lets his emotions get in the way of winning a Spar with a Human. A Magical Human, but a Human nonetheless.

A Useless Witcher is the kind. One that was slowing, one that couldn’t be counted on to protect Ciri, when the time came. He fell into a meditation, one in which he chided and scolded himself relentlessly in. This was pitiful, and Geralt assured himself that he wouldn’t let these feelings get a hold of him again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That exposition tho! This chapter is pretty much just lore, angst, and a hint of horny. We can have a little horny, as a treat. But it was fun! Hope the extra length was worth the wait. We on the uphill now boios. This is gonna be fun.
> 
> Bless Miscellaneous_Ace. She deserves love y'all.

**Author's Note:**

> A new hyperfixation, a new ship. Here i thought i wouldn't change in 2020. Welp. F to me. But yes, this is the Intro to a Geraskier fic that I couldn't stop thinking about writing during my watch of the show. AU (i guess) where Jaskier harnesses Magic through the power of song and has to learn how to use it and I think it's neat. Also cute Family dynamics with Geralt, Jaskier, and Ciri cuz they fucking DESERVE it.
> 
> And BIG OL THANKS to @Miscellaneous_Ace for listening to me blabber ideas and put stuff together and pitching them herself. She's also a wonderful beta reader and I appreciate her very VERY much.


End file.
